


Dreadnought

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Trapper John M.D. (TV)
Genre: American setting, Angst, Depressed John, Discussions of suicide and self-harm, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, RV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: After Sherlock's fall from St Bart's, a grief-stricken John Watson is driven from London--and to America--by his memories.A BBC Sherlock/Trapper John, MD fusion.





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> For the Miniseries March 2018 challenge.
> 
> OK, look. I know this sounds like a bizarre fusion, and people generally resist reading fusions when they don't know both sources, but basically this is just a straight-ahead post-TRF. All you need to know about Trapper John, MD, is that it was set at a hospital. Each episode featured at least one new patient/case, and one of the doctors lived in a run-down RV in the hospital parking lot. Sometimes at the end of the episode, the characters would sit on the roof of the RV in old-style nylon strap folding chairs and drink beer. That's it. (I haven't carried over the horrible misogyny or racism of the time. I hope you won't mind.)
> 
> NOTE: This story starts immediately post-S2. For the purposes of this fic, Series 3 and S4 don't happen. This isn't meant as a critical statement; it's just the story being told here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a place to park, at least for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for post-TRF John in a depressive state.

John blinked awake to the morning calls of songbirds as they rustled in the trees outside the Dreadnought’s window. The campground had been almost empty, not surprising for the middle of the week, and he’d been lucky enough to snag a corner space with full hook-ups well away from everyone else. The quiet had been welcome. The bedroom, such as it was, was pleasantly cool, and he’d had a decent night of sleep, for a change. It was early, probably too early, but he had quite a drive ahead of him and was eager to get going. He’d been spending too much time alone lately, and that was never safe. It reminded him too much of long hours sat staring at the fire in Baker Street, waiting for an end to the quiet. 

It was more than time to get back to work. He stretched and threw back the covers.

Half an hour later, he closed the cap to the gas tank and paid his bill. He double checked that everything was secure in the kitchen, a habit learned from unfortunate experience, and settled into the driver’s seat. The engine coughed to life, and he eased the caravan--no, RV, they called them RVs here--into the late morning traffic. The Dreadnought was ungainly in the tight turns of the freeway on-ramps, like navigating a whale through a river, but John had gotten pretty good at handling it.

The sun was shining, and the morning was warm. He had a cup of surprisingly decent gas station coffee in the cup holder, and traffic seemed light. The signs were auspicious, and he grabbed onto them, pathetically, gladly, optimistic despite himself. This was going to be a good day. It had to be.

Damn it, he was due.

John was glad to see Chicago rise up from the flat land in front of him, and was even more glad to see the back of it. American cities were vibrant and diverse, but they all seemed so...well, American. Long limbed, somehow. Rangy. Loud. It took him just under two hours to make his way up Highway 94--good time for a weekday, really--and he pulled into the large parking lot of the hospital with just under an hour to spare.  He drove around the far edge of the property and found an empty corner of concrete under a tall stand of trees that was just big enough for the RV if he parked parallel. 

He turned off the ignition and ignored the engine’s dry, dying rattle as he set the parking brake. He’d gotten used to the noise after all this time; it reminded him, when he allowed it to, of the grumbly old dog that lived next door during his primary school days. He cracked the driver side window just a little, and pulled the towel he kept close at hand over the steering wheel. If all went well, he wouldn’t be leaving right away, but it was best to be prepared. That wheel could get hot as hell on a bright summer afternoon.

He leaned back and relaxed into the sudden silence, looking through the windshield with interest. The complex looked very...suburban. The hospital itself was larger than he had imagined, six stories above ground, spread out widely over four wings. If he stretched forward a little, he could see the entrance: dark glass and concrete, a few scraggly trees leaning over a cement walkway, and a raised bed of brown-edged perennials. But along the sidewalk there were a few benches, freshly painted in a warm, welcoming green, and everything was tidy, neatly swept, well-groomed. The glass doors gleamed. He’d certainly seen worse.

A voice in his head snickered at his efforts at observation, but John ignored it and kept on.

The parking lot was paved, smooth and unmarred by cracks and potholes. He’d learned to assess infrastructure carefully, especially in these regions where weather could range from freezing to life-threateningly hot, sometimes (he’d swear) in a single day. It took good management to stay on top of maintenance; attention to detail, and a decent bank account.

Right, then. This showed promise.

John had been a hands-on student of America and her hospitals for just over eighteen months. He’d seen some impressive places, thoughtfully designed and beautifully equipped, and some places that made him long for the bureaucratic greys and beiges of the NHS and the British Army. Seattle, Santa Fe, Louisville, and Houston: all very different, and each left rather quickly behind. Every time he thought he’d seen it all, he’d pulled into another parking lot and discovered he was wrong.

America was a country of extremes, he’d come to recognize, with more than enough room to contain the variety. Even the seasons in America were big. He’d spent an autumn in Vermont, seeing to tourists in a storefront clinic and marveling at colors he’d not known could exist in the real world. He’d passed a couple of miserable winter months in Minnesota, avoiding the weather in underground tunnels and sky bridges that were invariably overheated, while helping the indigent fight frostbite and dehydration at a community hospital. 

Most recently, he’d lingered through a breathtaking spring in DC, savoring the flowering trees and slowly emerging greens. He’d done trauma work there, working long hours with an inspiring team, putting his military experience to work saving civilian lives. He’d forgotten the thrill of adrenaline, but after a couple of very dicey cases, he’d quickly found himself addicted to it once again. He knew it wouldn’t heal him--he wasn’t sure anything would--but it made him feel alive, and that was better than nothing. On his rare off days, he’d go for long hikes among the trees and flowers of the beautiful regional parks, letting the colors soothe the edges of his tattered, tired heart. The peace of these walks hadn’t lasted, but mixed in with the work and regular infusions of scotch, it had kept him going.

Now it was almost June, the worst time of the year, and he was sitting in his motorhome in a parking lot in Racine, Wisconsin, staring at the front entrance of St. John Baptist de Rossi Hospital. He’d forgotten all he’d ever known about the saints, but he’d read on the hospital website that the hospital had been named for the patron saint of the abandoned. He allowed himself a sardonic grin and a minute to think that appropriate, but then refused to consider it further.

He checked his watch; it was time. He stood in a practiced motion that avoided the sunvisor and the slope of the windshield. Behind the driver’s seat, in the little kitchen area, he took a moment to stretch and shook his head to clear it. The narrow full length mirror at the rear of the RV caught his reflection: a confident man, professionally dressed, ready to make a good impression. 

He crossed his fingers and hoped like hell it would be enough.

He locked the door of the Dreadnought behind him. 

\---

The reception area was bright and modern, as he’d known it would be, decorated with vaguely floral paintings and overly coordinated settees and armchairs. It was very clean, and the magazines appeared to be fairly current. The televisions in the corner played daytime talk shows, muted to an appropriate level. A few children played around a low table in a corner by the requisite aquarium, and there was a coffee maker in another corner, next to a separate pot for hot water and a large basket of tea bags. A smirk twisted one corner of John’s mouth; extra points there. 

“Excuse me, sir? Can I help you?”

John turned to the reception desk with an easy smile in place. The woman behind the computer was young and sporting a nervous grin. 

“Yes, please,” John said, taking a step closer. “If you could direct me. I’m here to see…”

“John Watson?” another voice interrupted.

John turned to see an elegant woman walking toward him, holding out her hand. She was tall, with intelligent eyes and a strong, confident walk. She had a solid handshake, John was forced to note, and while she wasn’t smiling as such, she looked pleased to meet him. “Eugenia Cavendish, Doctor. I’m the hospital administrator. You’re right on time. If you’ll come with me.”

She turned without another word and headed for the bank of elevators just off the main entrance. John gave the receptionist a quick nod of thanks before straightening his shoulders and turning to follow.

_ What do you notice?  _ a voice in his head--the same one who had laughed at him earlier--asked, as John skipped a couple of steps to catch up.

_ Not now, _ John answered silently, willing his face to stay pleasantly neutral.

_ Don’t be an idiot. Now is exactly the time. Start with her hands. That’s where you’ll find the most data. Nails? _

Despite himself, John let his gaze be drawn to Cavendish’s hand as her long finger pressed the elevator call button. 

_ Nails are short. Blunt cut. Well manicured, buffed but not polished. Her skin seems a bit...dry? Looks older than the rest of her. _

_ Mmm, _ the Voice hummed, sounding pleased.  _ Who wears their nails like that? Who has skin like that? _

_ Lots of women, _ John thought peevishly,  _ and a few men I could name.  _

_ We’ll come back to that, then, _ the Voice said.  _ Jewelry? _

_ Nice watch, _ John thought.  _ High quality. Classic. A single thin gold chain visible at her neckline. Nothing elaborate. No rings, but… _

_ But? _

_ A tan line on her ring finger. She has a ring, she just isn’t wearing it today. _

_ She isn’t wearing it to work, _ the Voice corrected, a bit amused.  _ Okay. Shoes.  _

_ Professional. Sleek, _ John thought, as he casually glanced down.  _ Hm, good leather. Expensive. _

_ Right. And recently polished. Those are investment shoes, obviously well cared for. The suit? _

_ Good quality fabric, _ John thought, stealing a quick look out of the corner of his eye as they descended in the elevator.  _ Well fitted. Probably tailored, if not completely custom. _

_ Yes. Look at those shoulder seams; they’re flawless. And the lapels lie perfectly. Cosmetics? _

John barely held back from rolling his eyes.  _ I can hardly stare at a woman’s face in an elevator, especially the woman I’m here to interview with. _

_ Of course, but you don’t have to look to see. Think back. She greeted you, offered her hand, lifted her eyebrows-- _

_ Light makeup, _ John remembered.  _ Subtle, but attractive. Not heavy. Hair pulled back, businesslike and elegant.  _

_ All right. This woman is well dressed, to carefully planned effect. She wants to be seen in a certain light, and so has obviously paid some attention to her coiffure. So why are her hands kept so plainly? Or specifically, why are her hands so plain in a hospital? _

_ Short nails are easier to scrub. Dry skin means she’s been doing it a while. Oh. She’s a doctor. _ John blinked.  _ Or a nurse, maybe.  _

_ She’s the hospital administrator. Balance of probability? _

_ Doctor. The hospital administrator is a doctor. _ John let his brow crease just a tiny bit in thought.  _ There’s something else. _

_ Excellent,  _ the Voice said with approval.  _ Go on. _

_ That scar on her right hand, between her thumb and index finger. I’ve seen that kind of scar before--it’s from firing a 9mm pistol. If your grip is off, the slide action can cut the web of your hand. _

The Voice hummed thoughtfully. _ Bit of a reach, there, maybe. Hands get scarred pretty easily, especially doctors’ hands. _

_ I’d agree, but the knuckle of her middle finger is thickened as well. That’s a sign of recurrent firing injury. And her bearing--shoulders back, chin up. She’s definitely military of some sort. _

_ Ex-military, surely. _

_ Yes, of course. Or National Guard. That’s a thing here. _

_ Well, well, Dr Watson, _ said the Voice, pleased.  _ Excellent analysis. Your hospital administrator is a kindred spirit. Seems you may have met your match. _

John couldn’t help himself from giving a tiny nod.  _ Right. So...what does that mean? _

_ What indeed, John, _ the Voice murmured, already fading away as the elevator opened.

“All right, Dr Watson,” Cavendish said briskly. “First, let me take you on a quick tour of the highlights.”

John nodded politely. “I’d appreciate that,” he said. “It’s always good to know what you’re getting into.”

\---

The tour confirmed his initial impressions. In some ways, it was like every other hospital he’d ever seen: scared patients, harried doctors, worried families, and brilliant nurses. But the floors were the cleanest he’d ever seen, and there were no gurney scuffs on the wall. John peeked into a few of the patient rooms, and they were all neatly appointed and well-lit. They passed by a humming digital radiography unit, a well-appointed doctor’s lounge, and a gleaming surgery suite. It was all surprisingly modern, for a small town hospital. John was pleased. This really could work.

Dr Cavendish’s office was in the basement. Her MBA diploma from Columbia and her MD from Harvard were simply, identically framed, and hung in an unlit corner set away from the door. She directed John toward a small conference table in the corner. “Coffee?” she said, as she stepped around behind the desk and glanced at her phone. Checking for messages, John thought. 

“Just some water, please, Doctor,” he said, as he took a seat. 

She picked up a folder and made her way over to the table. “You’re observant,” she noted at his use of her title. She gave him a genuine smile and indicated the small refrigerator beside him.

If you only knew, thought John, as he gave her what he hoped was a disarming little shrug, and opened the refrigerator door. Americans liked their water ice-cold. It was something he would never get used to.

She sat down and opened the file. “I checked you out, you know,” she said casually, looking over the paper inside. “Just as soon as I got your CV. Called a few people.”

John took a sip of water and put on an expression of polite interest. “I should expect so.”

She didn’t look over at him, though he sensed she was watching him from the corner of her eye. “Joe was a classmate of mine. Hadn’t talked to him in a while.”

John pushed down a quick moment of panic, instead allowing a fond smile onto his face. “He’s a good man. Hell of a surgeon.” He took another sip, affecting nonchalance. “And he said?”

“Almost exactly the same about you.” She leaned back in her chair, and John noticed her eyes were sparkling, just a little. “He also said he’d take you back in a New York second.”

“Well.” John allowed himself to relax. His relationship with Joe had been complicated, but he’d tried to end things on a good note. “That’s nice to hear.”

“He also said I’m supposed to kick your ass for driving off before he could win all his money back.”

John laughed outright at that. “To be fair, I offered a rematch before I left.” 

Cavendish smiled back at him. “You should call him,” she said, tapping the paper absently. “He said he’d be glad to hear from you.”

“You’re right, I should,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. 

She pursed her lips. “He wouldn’t tell me why you left. It sounded like you had a good set-up there.”

John gave a small shrug. There was nothing to he could say to that. 

Cavendish watched him for a long minute, and then sighed. “Look, here’s the thing. This is a small hospital, but it’s a good one, and I manage it well, if I may say so. We have a great staff, we pay well, and we have a lot of toys other regional hospitals don’t.” She leaned her elbows on the table and pointed at him for emphasis. “If I’m going to go to the trouble of taking you on, you have to promise me you won’t bolt a few weeks down the road. It’s bad for morale, and it’s a waste of resources.”

“You’re looking for a commitment.”

“Yes.”

John frowned, looking over at the somewhat lengthy list of jobs on his CV. He could understand her position, but he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep. “I’m...not sure what to tell you,” he said, hesitantly.  

“Tell me you’ll stick around. Because those toys I mentioned? They’re not toys, they’re  _ tools, _ and this---” She waved the CV in the air. “This tells me you know how to use them. Joe says you’re a great doctor, and a  _ damn _ good teacher. I can use that. You could make a big difference here, Watson. I’m not dumb enough to think you’d stay forever, but it has to be worth my time.”

He blinked at her. She lifted an eyebrow.

“How long?” he asked, at last.

She smiled, apparently appreciating the honesty of the question. “Six months.”

Six months. John took a breath and held it for a long moment, before releasing it slowly. Summer in Wisconsin, spilling well into autumn. June and its ghosts, spent here, in this place. Working with patients, teaching the staff, doing some good. Getting to know people. People getting to know him, becoming curious about his accent, about what he’d done before. About why he kept to himself. People googling him on the nurse’s station computer on a slow night. It was a small hospital; everyone would talk.

But everything he’d seen, all he’d heard...the ratings on this place were impressive. They had a special outreach program for the homeless, which was by all reports well funded and effective. The staff retention levels were almost unheard of. A new MRI unit was being delivered in a week. And Cavendish herself was something to recommend the place.

Still, the idea of making a promise made him uneasy. John took another deep breath, and tried to see the whole picture.

Racine itself was a small city, and they were on the outskirts. The hospital had been easy to find; the area around it seemed quiet, with a few bars, a couple of chain restaurants, a promising-looking diner and one ambitious English-style pub. Blocks of flats, all the same. One of those huge American department stores. Dogs in backyards, and birds in the trees. People going about their business; families and friends, needing medical care.

It was a busy hospital; he wouldn’t have much time to wallow. And he’d have to spend June somewhere, after all.

“All right,” he said, meeting her eyes at last. “I can give you six months.”

She smiled, stood and offered her hand. “Welcome aboard, Doctor Watson. Grab a locker in the doctors’ lounge. There should be scrubs in the closet. Watch out for the chili in the cafeteria, it’s lethal. The burritos are decent, though, and there’s ice cream on Fridays. Anything else you need to know?”

He reached to take her hand, prepared this time for the firmness of her grasp. “Just one thing...how do I get a parking permit?”

An hour later he was sitting in a folding chair on the roof of the RV, celebrating with one of those burritos and a single beer, watching fat clouds pass by and hoping like hell he hadn’t just made a big mistake. 

On his way to the hospital, on the drive through town, he’d only seen two police cars, each manned by officers who didn’t recognize him. No sleek black cars or paparazzi behind bushes. No Ferris wheel, no monuments, no palaces. 

This would work, he told himself firmly. There were no ghosts here, nothing to remind him of London.

\---

Of course his first patient was named Elizabeth, and she came in smelling like the Thames.

John had just reported for work when his pager beeped. A kind nurse pointed him in the right direction, and he stopped just outside the door of the urgent care exam room to brush off his lab coat and double check that he had his stethoscope. The check-in sheet was hanging on a clipboard in a plastic box by the door: Briones, Elizabeth. Ankle injury. 

Easy as pie. He pasted on a professional smile and opened the door. A girl was sitting on the examination table, wriggling uncomfortably on the thin white protective paper with one leg stretched out in front of her. An older man and woman sat in the plastic chairs facing her, and they all looked up expectantly as John entered the small room.

“Lizzie here fell in the pond around back of the property, Doc,” the woman said in greeting, shaking her head. “Poor thing’s always been clumsy, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t get wet being clumsy, Aunt Marcy. It was  _ intentional,"  _ the patient said with a scowl. John gave her an encouraging smile. 

“You’re Elizabeth, right?” he asked, and the girl nodded as he quickly read over her check-in sheet. Twelve years old, no allergies, normal height and weight. “You did fall, though?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I didn’t twist my ankle or anything. I slipped on some rocks, and then a few minutes later, my foot just started hurting. I didn’t think it was bad, but then it started kind of...puffing up.”

“Doing a bit of exploring, then, were you?” The girl slanted a quick look over at her aunt, and then gave a tiny nod. “Good for you,” John whispered with a wink, and after a blink of surprise, the girl beamed.

“Her ankle swole up pretty fast,” Marcy continued, apparently oblivious to John and Elizabeth’s tiny moment of conspiracy. “Her momma’s at work, but she said we should go ahead and bring her in. Sure you’ll want X-rays, Doc. It’s OK. Bobby here’s her stepdaddy. He works down the hardware shop. They got insurance over there.”

John gave Bobby a respectful nod, and Bobby stood up and offered his hand. “You’re the new doc,” he said, as though he’d been thinking it over and it was the only reasonable conclusion. There was a scar across his palm and inner wrist, deep and unmissable, that echoed up his arm. It had healed well, but it had taken some skill to repair it. John had seen scars like that in the army--not from weaponry, but from shop equipment. This man worked with his hands. 

John looked up to see that Bobby had caught him looking, though he didn’t seem upset about it. “Bandsaw,” Bobby said simply. “The docs here saw me right. Sewed me up and got me into OT. I still do the stretching exercises twice a week. Lizzie’s mom gives me holy hell if I’m late by even an hour. I still have full use of it, and it don’t ever hurt. Doesn’t slow me down in hunting season, either.” He shrugged. “I got lucky. Could’ve been worse.”

John’s shoulder twinged as he nodded in understanding before turning his attention back to his patient’s tender ankle.

“Lizzie fell once before, Doc,” Marcy chimed in as she watched John’s careful examination. “Last year, at her birthday party. Roller skating. Hurt her wrist. Got X-rays then, too, but nothing broken, thank the lord. Just a sprain. Got herself wrapped up real good.”

“Ugh, Aunt Marcy. Stop calling me that.” John registered the girl’s angry huff on one level, but he didn’t look up because there was something about that ankle...

_ Tell me, Doctor,  _ the Voice said.  _ This is your area, not mine. _

John nodded thoughtfully.  _ That’s very focal edema, _ he thought. _ It’s a circular lesion, not associated directly with the joint.  And the erythema...skin over a sprain shouldn’t be that red. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, in Afghanistan.  _

He leaned back, frowning. “Nurse, do you have any surgical loupes on this floor?” he asked, gently rotating the ankle from side to side. “I need to see something.”

The nurse looked up with surprise. “Of course, Doctor,” she said, setting the tray of splint materials she’d been assembling on the counter. She stepped over to the supply closet near the door and pulled out a plastic storage box.

“Ah, perfect,” John said, taking the box. “I don’t know why they can’t make these more attractive. Here, what do you think?” He slipped the glasses on over his head, and made a funny face through the magnifying lenses at the girl, who giggled. Then he bent down over her foot and peered closely. It took only a couple of seconds to find what he was looking for.

_ Well done, Doctor, _ the Voice said, and John’s chest thrilled just a little from the satisfaction of a hunch paid off.

“This isn’t a sprain,” he said, as he straightened up. “There are two small punctures in the middle of all this red skin. Can you see them here?” He pointed and the girl leaned forward and looked closely before nodding. “Well, your eyes are better than mine. I just couldn’t see them for all the redness and swelling. This, my young friend, is a spider bite.”

“A spider? Was it poisonous?” Elizabeth swallowed. “Will I lose my leg?”

John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “This looks more like an allergic reaction than poison, so I’m pretty sure I can save it,” he said solemnly. “You don’t get the really poisonous ones this far north anyway, it’s too darn cold. But I’m going to need to give you a couple of injections to stop the swelling. Is that okay?”

Behind them, Bobby cleared his throat. “Shots, you said, Doc?"

John turned around to face him. “Yes. An antihistamine, I think, and a little bit of a steroid for the swelling. It’s nothing too serious, as long as it doesn’t get infected. But good news, no X-rays today.”

“OK, well...” Bobby said, rubbing his scarred hand down his suddenly pale face. 

Marcy stood and patted his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, Doc, I’ll take Bobby down to get a cup of coffee while you fix Lizzie up. Ever since the accident, he’s been a little squeamish about needles. Lizzie’s mom will never forgive me if I let him pass out.”

John glanced at the nurse, who nodded and showed them to the door, murmuring about releases and home care sheets as they went. As their voices faded, he opened the cabinet, grabbed two small vials, and started pulling up two injections, fully aware that Elizabeth was watching his every move.

“You don’t like being called Lizzie,” he said, to distract her. “What do your friends call you?”

Elizabeth shrugged, still keeping an eye on the syringes. “Elizabeth, mostly. I don’t know. None of the usual nicknames really feel like me.”

“Well, that’s fine. It’s a lovely name.”

She nodded and smiled shyly. “I like your accent. It’s...different.”

He sighed to himself. Patients always commented on the accent. She’d probably ask about tea soon. “Thanks.”

“My mom went to London when she was in school,” she continued, with an air of confession. “It’s how I got my name.”

“After the Queen?” 

She nodded again. 

“Yeah, there are quite a few Elizabeths running around England, I’m pretty sure. She’s been our queen for a long time.” He opened two small alcohol wipe packets, setting them out on the bandaging tray, and motioned to her to roll up her sleeves.

“I can’t imagine it, being a queen,” she said thoughtfully, as she complied. “I mean, you see it in the movies, right? Everyone bowing all the time, and the dresses, and the crowns...”

He grinned at her. She seemed so serious, as if she’d given it quite a bit of thought. “I imagine it feels like work to her. Probably kind of lonely, sometimes, too.”

“She has those little short dogs, though, doesn’t she?”

“Corgis. Yeah.” He took gentle hold of one of her arms, and started cleaning a small area with the alcohol wipe. 

“I do think I’d like to live in a palace, though,” she continued, in the same contemplative tone. “Big rooms, with lots of servants, and flowers...have you ever been to one? A palace, I mean?”

John froze, suddenly unable to breathe. His memory presented him with a beautiful room, immaculate and quiet, bathed in warm light from tall, spotless windows. That was what he always remembered, for some reason: the light.

That, and the feel of a heavy crystal ashtray in his hand. 

He could still see it all so clearly: the chandeliers, the gilt-edged mirrors, the plush, elaborate rugs. Tapestries, actual tapestries, hung on the walls, something he hadn’t had the time to appreciate that rushed afternoon. A spotless tea tray, and the man in a double-breasted suit and a striped silk tie who’d been steeped in connections and discretion. A pile of clothes and a pair of leather dress shoes incongruously stacked on the coffee table between two elegant sofas. 

A tall man with dark hair, perfect in that light, wearing only a bedsheet.

They’d received a new package of bedding from the equerry the day after their visit, a sarcastic but still welcome reminder of the sheet that had been left behind. The package had been precisely wrapped in tissue paper and elaborately tied with a blue silk ribbon. John had draped the ribbon over a doorknob, in memoriam of a brave soldier who fell, he’d said at the time.  He’d later seen a small piece of it being used as a bookmark, a bright spot of blue between the pages of a chemistry text. The rest of the ribbon had bounced around the flat, from doorknob to coat hook to mantelpiece, before John had finally taken it up to his room, rolled it up, and put it away to keep it safe. He wondered where it was now.

He blinked, and found Elizabeth staring at him with curiosity and a bit of concern. He felt weak, like he needed oxygen, or a cup of juice, or maybe just a chair and a quiet hour. But his patient was waiting, and he smiled apologetically as he looked down at his hands. He was still holding Elizabeth’s arm. He resumed rubbing the small section of skin with the wipe, aware that the alcohol had already evaporated.

He felt a small tremor in his left hand, and resolutely ignored it. Elizabeth still looked hopeful, obviously expecting an answer.

“I visited Buckingham Palace once,” he told her quietly. “It was lovely.”

Wow, she mouthed, blinking hard and lowering her gaze to the floor. She barely moved as John gave her one injection in each upper arm, placing tiny plasters over each site as he went, and he kept watch on her from the corner of his eye as he dropped the syringes into the sharps container on the counter. She was deep in thought, and John was loathe to interrupt her. He was still feeling rather pensive himself. 

She finally stirred. “I asked her about it, once,” she said quietly, and John leaned in to listen as he started to clean the ankle wound. “She doesn’t talk about it often, but I asked what it was like over there. In London. She told me...there were trains underground that could take you anywhere you wanted to go. They took a boat to the Tower, and saw the queen’s jewels, and they had black birds there that would kiss people. They got to ride in those red buses, and every afternoon they had cookies and tea.” She looked up at him shyly. “Do you drink tea?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, yes. By the liter.” She lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh. Um, gallon. By the gallon.”

“Oh.” She winced a bit as John started to rub some salve on the bite. “Anyway. She said everyone treated her nice there, you know? Polite. The men were all gentlemen, and no one ever yelled at her, even though she was confused by how everything was so different. And people listened to her, like her ideas mattered, you know? She told me it was the best time she ever had.”

John nodded silently as he pulled out a roll of ace bandage. London could do that to you, apparently, show you exactly what you needed, give you perfect days and then break your heart. He still walked those streets at night, in the rare dreams that didn’t leave him screaming. It made him sad to think that the ambitions of this American woman had peaked there, so long ago. He’d already come to terms with knowing the same was true of him.

“I really want to go there someday,” Elizabeth said, and she seemed tentative, as though such a wish was too foolish to speak aloud. “I think...I think I’d really like it.”

Oh, you would, John thought, and was surprised to feel a prickling at the corners of his eyes. He blinked hard a couple of times, bringing the girl’s foot into focus. There was mud around the cuff of her jeans, a reddish clay of some sort, and John wondered if it contained the same pollens as the mud next to the Thames. He’d have known whom to ask, once.

As much as he liked this girl, he really wanted this appointment to be over.

“You should do,” he said as he smoothed the wrap around her ankle, trying to make it sound light and casual. “Go to London, that is. Maybe let this heal first, though.”

“It’s just so hard to imagine.” Elizabeth looked up at him with wide eyes. “Is it as special as my mom makes it sound?”

_ Yes. _ The answer came immediately and flashed through his head with the speed and fury of lightning, and the pang of longing that followed almost made him whimper. He busied himself with tidying the bandaging tray, trying to find the words that would give her what she needed without leaving him for dead on the treatment room floor.

“It was for me,” he said finally, telling enough of the truth to get by. “Now, let’s see if we saved this leg.” He offered her a gallant hand, and she took it and hopped down from the table with a delighted smile. 

“I’ll have to tell my mom about you. She’ll be so excited,” she said. “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

The nurse chose that moment to return, and John blessed her timing one hundred times in his head.

\---

One hour after his first shift had ended, John sat on the tiny, hard sofa in the RV’s lounge, staring down into the half-empty glass of scotch he held in his left hand. It was dark outside, and the room was lit only by the dim parking lot light that crept under the cheap vinyl blinds. These times, when they came, always came at night.

This was his second drink, but he was inclined to forgive himself for it. London was echoing in his head, and he needed to be a little numb to endure it. The ice in the glass rattled as his hand trembled.

His hand had been steady since he’d left D.C. He’d been doing so well, he thought, and then in the next second, scoffed at the idea. He hadn’t been even close to all right at any time since London, since that June afternoon at St Bart’s. God, even the name of the hospital stole his breath. Summoning up all his strength, he resolutely slammed the door on those memories, and then drained the rest of his drink. There was no point putting himself through the hell of those memories now, not when he’d be back there again in a few hours, defenseless, in his sleep.

Christ, he was lonely. 

He’d made a mistake in D.C. John could admit that now. He’d made friends there, or one friend, at least, but he’d gotten in too deep before realising that he had nothing worthwhile left to offer. He’d given his heart away some time before without realising it, only to see it utterly, irreversibly, destroyed. What happened to a human heart that reached terminal velocity? John wondered, and poured himself another drink. He supposed he could look in the mirror to see the answer to that question.

He leaned back against the low, hard back of the sofa and considered yet again the fate of his ardent if unspoken devotion, carefully smashed to bits in the pocket of a dramatic coat after a purposeful sixty-foot fall. He hated that coat. 

He hated violins, too, for that matter. 

It was a violin that had driven him to leave London. He’d been adrift after that June afternoon; he’d managed an agonizing couple of weeks at Baker Street before he’d stumbled out the door, nearly blind with lack of sleep, and headed for Greg Lestrade’s apartment. He’d managed two weeks there before he’d left a note and a bottle of whiskey on the table and set out for Bill Murray’s house, and his comfortable, if cluttered, spare room. After that, it had been a few nights here and a few nights there, a cot in the kitchen at a rugby mate’s, the sofa at Mike Stamford’s, a few desperate nights and weekends at his sister’s place, a hotel when he’d sensed all his welcomes were worn. He’d been functionally homeless, bouncing from sofa to sofa, swinging by his sister’s house to pick up his mail when he knew she’d be at the office. It had, surprisingly, worked. The immediate concerns of his survival and comfort had overridden the horror of the recent past, and though late summer had seen him dragging out his best shirt and going to see his therapist, for the most part he’d kept busy just trying to get by.

His bank account had stayed steady the whole time, and he hadn’t asked how or why. John, from the outside, must have looked like he was falling apart, wracked with regret and sorrow. The least the man who had sold them out (sold his  _ own brother _ out) to a sociopathic enemy could do was pay his fucking bills.

And then, suddenly, it had been the week before Christmas. He’d been staying at the flat of a distant friend near Oxford Circus, a terrible area if you wanted to avoid the holidays, but the perfect place for getting lost in a crowd. He’d come around a corner on a freezing afternoon to find a young man, case open on the pavement before him, earnestly playing Christmas carols on his violin. The sound, clear and pure, had left John leaning against a wall and gasping for air, clutching at his heart, certain it would fail at any moment.

Three hours later, he’d been at Heathrow, booking the next flight to the States.

The plane landed in Seattle half an hour ahead of schedule, but the airport had barely registered as John had hurried through immigration and then out into the humid northwest afternoon. He’d checked into an airport hotel, where he’d sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, wondering what the hell he was doing. He’d sat still for an entire hour, listening to the electric babble that passed for quiet in every hotel room he’d ever known. Then he’d rubbed his hands down his tired face, stumbled into the shower, and spent the rest of the evening sampling the contents of the mini bar.

Christmas itself had been a blur, spent mostly in the painfully cheery bar of a hotel next to the train station in Portland, Oregon, but one week later, he’d bought a small car, mastered driving on the right side of the road, and rung in the new year alone with a bottle of bourbon on a beach in L.A.

Two months after that, he’d found that a combination of vodka and depression made for an excellent poker face, and had won the RV from a man who’d wept as he’d handed over the keys. John had renamed it and bought some new tires, and here, almost eighteen months later, he sat staring into his scotch, wondering if he was drunk enough to sleep.

He wasn’t sure he could do this, he thought suddenly, and with clarity. He was...not well.  It was not unreasonable to think that he might not survive this for even another week. It felt almost inevitable, in this moment, that he’d roll over on one of these dark nights and surrender. 

But Cavendish was expecting him to start work tomorrow. They needed him, she’d said, and he’d promised her six months.

John sighed and pushed his way up to standing, pausing to test his balance for a few seconds. He needed to get some sleep, though he wasn’t very hopeful. He pulled his keys from his pocket and threw them down on the table, taking a moment to be glad he’d thought to move the RV before opening the scotch. His tolerance for alcohol had grown greatly over the past couple of years, but he knew he was in no shape to drive, even through a parking lot. This morning, before his shift, he’d searched out a spot in the overflow lot, in sight of the front door and set back under trees for shade, but still well away from any sidewalks or other reasons for anyone to pass nearby. He’d be comfortable here. He’d be alone. No one would hear his screams if (when) the dreams came back.

\---


	2. Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John settles in.

John slumped on the cold steel bench in the locker room, staring blindly at the floor. His hair had been mashed down by his surgical cap and then set in place with sweat; now his scalp itched, but he was too drained to lift his arm and scratch it. There was a single drop of blood on his shoe that had escaped the protective cover; it was new enough to still glow bright red. His eyes burned, and the metallic beeps of monitors and alerts still echoed in his ears. The taste of adrenaline lingered on his tongue, metallic and astringent...

And there was a woman alive in the next room that by all rights shouldn’t have been. John felt pretty damn good.

A polished pair of leather dress shoes stepped into his line of sight, and he slowly raised his gaze to the face of the man standing before him.

“Hell of a save, Watson,” the man said admiringly as he finished knotting his tie. “Where’d you learn that technique?”

John gave a dry laugh. “That wasn’t technique, Bob. That was desperation. I was making it up as we went.” He pulled himself to his feet, the muscles in his back protesting all the while.

Bob paused, his mouth dropping open. “You’re kidding.”

John shook his head. 

“Wow. You’ve got balls, man. How’d you know it would work?”

“I didn’t,” John said, as he pulled his locker open. “But hell, you saw her vitals. We were losing her. I figured all bets were off.” He reached for the bottle of ibuprofen on the shelf, and swallowed two tablets dry. “Like we used to say in the Army, time for another thing they didn’t teach us in med school.”

“Shit.” Bob chuckled ruefully. “Here we say, let’s keep this guy alive long enough to sue us for malpractice.”

John quirked an exhausted half smile. “You know, if If I get driven out of medicine for saving someone’s life, I’ll still call it a win.”

“Jesus, not me,” Bob said, shaking his head emphatically.  “If I had to quit, I’d freak the fuck out. This is all I know. I mean, what would you do if you couldn’t be a doctor?”

John blinked. It was a question he hadn’t considered in a long time.

He remembered coming home from Afghanistan, without a practice, without patients, bland days in a horrible bedsit with an apple for lunch and maybe his gun for dinner. Long walks in weak sun and a limp he’d never thought would fade. He’d still thought of himself as a doctor first then, even with nothing more than nightmares of dying soldiers to show for it.

And then.

Racing after shadowy figures in alleys, long hours of stake outs and longer hours of court testimony, afternoons spent crawling through archives both real and virtual. A gun in his hand instead of a scalpel. His face on the news. Takeaway next to stacks of paperwork, and laughter in the hallway of a police station after too little sleep. Weeks without wearing a lab coat, his medicine limited to antibiotic cream for abrasions and soup for hypothermia.

He was absolutely certain of when he’d felt the most alive, but the opportunity was now lost to him forever. He felt a flare of regret at the thought, as he always did, but it wasn’t as visceral as it usually was. He’d just saved a life, after all. Medicine was what he had now, and he supposed he’d gotten used to the idea. 

John waited for the Voice to weigh in, but it stayed silent. It’d been pretty quiet lately, now that he thought about it.

Bob cleared his throat at John’s long silence. He lifted his eyebrows inquisitively, and John shrugged. “I have no idea what I'd do,” he said honestly, and left it at that.

\---

The dreams weren’t as bad when it rained, for some reason. Summer was fading now, and apparently it rained a lot here in the fall. He liked it.

After some experimentation, John had settled the Dreadnought in a rarely used corner of the employee parking lot, near a utility shed with power outlets and a convenient water connection. From the tiny window in the RV’s lounge, he had a clear view of the entrance to the emergency room and the unmarked staff doorway a few yards to the side and down. The walk to and from work was just long enough to let him clear his head in both directions.

He’d survived the summer, survived June, through a mix of blindingly hard work at the hospital and liberal servings of alcohol at home. He’d taken every shift Cavendish had offered, staying after whenever he could, pointing ruefully at a stack of charts whenever anyone asked him out for lunch or a happy hour. He’d willfully allowed his reticence to be written off to British reserve and his work ethic to be exploited. The summer had been hot, but he’d always felt cold. He’d worked and drank and thrashed through his dreams, making sure all the while that no one got to know him well enough to tell him he looked like shit.

He’d realized he’d gotten through the worst of it while manning the first aid booth at the city’s annual Labor Day celebration. He’d spent the day supplying plasters and sunscreen to the unprepared citizens of Racine, and had felt tired, but in a good way. After dark, he’d stood outside the tent with a couple of colleagues, a cold beer in hand, and found to his surprise that he was enjoying himself. There’d been fireworks, good ones, and he didn’t miss the irony that the first deep breath he’d taken in months carried the faint scent of gunpowder. He still dreamed at night, he still ached, but the days began to get easier.

He was finding his way around the local shops, knew a couple of the locals from the closest coffee shop by sight, and had even found a few mates to share a pint with when the RV got too quiet. He was learning to appreciate baseball, a social requirement this close to Chicago, though the finer points of American football still passed him by. The hospital had become familiar through long hours of exposure: he knew which exam rooms were best equipped, which floor had the best coffee, and where the nurses hid to gossip on quiet nights. He’d gotten to know the staff members themselves, their individual strengths and weaknesses, who handled the inevitable stress with quiet, or anger, or tears. The familiarity was comforting.

After a while, he’d started assembling a little circle of regular patients, people he’d see again and again for complications of their chronic diseases, or for being accident prone, or for merely lacking health insurance, that baffling American condition. He regretted the illnesses, but he liked the feeling of connection. These people needed him, and he could help.

For a long time after he’d won the Dreadnought, he’d resisted decorating. The only things he’d brought over from his old life had been a couple of jumpers and his old mobile phone, tossed hurriedly into a duffle bag as a taxi had waited. However, after many months, he couldn’t help but have collected a few mementos along the way: magnets, postcards, plastic cups, menus from sketchy restaurants. In the passenger’s seat, there was a rather ugly stuffed moose wearing a t-shirt from a bar that he barely remembered, though he still winced at the memory of the hangover. 

A social worker he’d invited over in a lonely moment for a glass of wine (and nothing more, though she’d offered, a sensitive soul drawn to his pain--it had been too soon, maybe it would always be too soon) had suggested doing something to make the hideous walls something other than the sorry imitation of white they were. On his next day off, he’d impulsively taken the suggestion and after a trip to a massive hardware store, he’d painted the walls a light, creamy blue. This country had an astonishing variety of light, and he enjoyed the play of it on the walls. 

But still...when it rained, not the storms they got here but simple rain, the windows would lengthen and haze over; the scents would shift from fiberglass and aluminum to firewood and tea, perfectly steeped in a kitchen that doubled as a laboratory. If he was lucky and he squinted just right, the shadows on the walls would take on the shapes of elaborate wallpaper. The clatter of the raindrops on the metal roof would become the long-suffering landlady at her bins, and for a moment, he’d be home.

\---

Kelly waited patiently in the exam room. She was always patient; it worried him, sometimes. She smiled faintly in greeting when John came in, but didn’t meet his eyes.

She’d come in with a dental abscess today, a slight swelling near the right angle of the jaw, warm and slightly red. She winced when he touched it. 

“Why’d you wait to come in?” he asked, frowning. “That’s been there a while.”

She shrugged. “I thought it would go away.”

“Well, you’re here now. It must hurt. Is it getting worse?”

“Maybe,” she said, looking down at her fingers where they were tangled in her lap. 

“Have you been able to eat?” he asked, as he rummaged in the cabinets for samples of antibiotics.

“I get by,” she answered, in a cautious voice that made him pause. He checked her chart. She’d lost weight. She didn’t really have it to lose. 

Weight loss, insensitivity to pain, and--he glanced in her direction, only to see her look quickly away--a distinct unwillingness to meet his eyes. He’d lived with it too long not to know the signs, though Kelly (at least) had always been honest with him about it.

“Can I check your arms?” he asked quietly.

After a moment’s pause, she nodded and started rolling up her sleeves. The track marks were clean this time, no swellings or redness, and he nodded his approval. He knew not to make a fuss. There was something else, too: fresh bruises around one wrist, and when he looked more closely at her face, a fading yellow mark under her right eye.

His heart ached. He didn’t let it show. “Is there anything else you need today?”

“Condoms, please,” she whispered. Her last set of test results, a month ago, had been clean; the nurse had told him that she’d never consented to testing before. The first time John had seen her, for strep throat, one of the nursing assistants had whispered the truth to him, eyes wide and scandalized. A sex worker, she’d told him, though she’d used a cruder phrase. The woman had looked disappointed when John had merely nodded and thanked her. He’d already had his suspicions.

The next afternoon, after rounds, he’d sat at the computer in the doctors’ lounge and researched every state, county and community program he could find, finally managing to pull together the resources that allowed him to offer free testing and treatment with a casual shrug and no pressure whatsoever. She’d taken the recommendation, cautiously, as though sifting through John’s words, looking for the strings that must be attached. A week later, she’d evinced a quiet shock at the page of negative results handed over with a diffident “see you in three months, then.” She’d politely but definitively declined rehab, however, which John hadn’t found surprising.

Kelly’s next visit, for bronchitis, had come on a slow night. After, he’d sipped at a lukewarm paper cup of tea and listened to his nurse, a life-long local, tell him how Kelly had grown up in the small town one over. Their brothers had known each other, apparently, from wrestling or whatnot, and they would see each other at matches and chat a little. She was a little shy, but everyone knew Kelly was a bright girl. She’d written for the school paper and won math prizes, and everyone assumed she’d go away to college and make something of herself. Toward the end of her junior year, she actually won a scholarship to a women’s college on the East Coast, a fact that the nurse related with tinges of awe and jealousy.

But then, on one hot night at a local bar, Kelly’s father had loudly declared that no girl of his would be going away to some fancy pants university. He hadn’t needed college, after all, so she sure as hell didn’t. The word had reached Kelly herself the next evening, delivered to her in the family kitchen in the same strident tones. Neighbors had told the nurse that Kelly sat on the porch for hours that night, periodically slapping at the early summer mosquitos but otherwise just staring out into the street.

After graduation, Kelly passed the postal service test and won a position at the local office, but her would-be supervisor wore a turban, and her father had put a stop to that too. She started taking classes at the local community college, fitting the hours in around irregular shifts at the corner grocery store. She lived at home, but the nurse had still seen her out and about on the weekends, at clubs and parties. They’d been friendly, but then Kelly had disappeared from the scene.

The nurse hadn’t seen her for several months when she heard through the grapevine that Kelly had started dating a boy from Chicago who had strong opinions about a woman’s place in a relationship. Kelly’s father had loudly declared his approval. Kelly stopped going to school, and became very quiet.

After a few months, the boy’s mother set a wedding date. Kelly dodged it by claiming cold feet, and then flat out ran away the second time. Her father kicked her out after that, throwing her clothes out into the front scrap of a yard and having his cousin come over to change the locks. A well meaning former teacher had tried to intervene, to get her started in a teaching program, but it was too late. The boy had already gotten her started on the drugs. She’d had to find a way to pay for them.

Today John smiled with just the right amount of distance and handed her a bag with a bottle of antibiotics, two boxes of condoms and a box of syringes, individually wrapped, with small gauge needles. “There’s a card for a dentist in there,” he said, nodding at the bag. “The antibiotics will help, but it won’t heal until that tooth comes out. He does work for the county, good guy. He’ll be expecting your call.”

Kelly had nodded and thanked him with a slight lift of the lips on the side that didn’t hurt. Her pupils looked almost normal size in the indirect light of the examination room. She’d probably need to score again soon.

“You can’t save their souls,” a med school mentor had told him over a glass of cheap scotch one night. “You can only fix their bodies, and even then you have your limits. You have to protect yourself, John. You can’t care more than they do.”

But you  _ could, _ John had learned, and the knowledge seared through his body sometimes like a lightning strike.

He saw her at the library sometimes, squinting down at a plastic covered book. She’d need glasses, he thought, and made a note to look into free eye exams.

She never offered him her body, and he took that as the compliment it was intended to be.

\---

“Dr Watson,” Cavendish called down the hall, and John turned to greet her with a smile. She came up to the ER fairly often, checking on how things were going, and he was always glad to see her. Today, though, she had a tall, smiling man in scrubs in her wake. “Brought you a compatriot, John,” she said with a grin. “Now you’ll have someone to share those crumpets with.”

John knew a cue when he heard one. “Oh, thank heavens,” he said, raising one hand to his forehead in an exaggerated gesture of despair. “I’m simply awash in clotted cream.” 

The man chuckled. “Clive Abbott,” he said in a rich London accent. “I’m your new nurse. Afraid I’m not much of a tea drinker, though, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be to you.”

John grinned as they shook hands. “No worries there, mate, as long as you don’t call football ‘soccer’ and know your way around a pint.”

Clive smiled back, his dark eyes sparkling. “I think we’ll get along just fine, then, Doctor.” 

“Excellent,” Cavendish said, beaming. “Maybe we can all go for tea sometime, and both of you can explain cricket to me.” She turned to Clive. “Excuse me a minute, will you? I need to check on something while I’m up here.”

“Of course, Doctor.” As Cavendish strode down the hallway, Clive turned and eyed the patient board that hung behind the nurses’ station. “Quiet morning,” he observed.

“Yeah, well, you never know,” John said absently, frowning down at his pager. “Same time last week we had gurneys lining the hallways. It was chaos.”

“Huh.” Clive hesitated. “Um, Dr Cavendish told me you were ex-army. Me, too.”

John looked up and blinked once. “Yeah?”

Clive nodded. “Yeah. Medic. Northern Ireland, if you can believe it. Stayed out of trouble, mostly, though I did do a spot of training in Cyprus. Never been so sunburnt. You?”

John felt the familiar pinch in his shoulder, but ignored it and matched Clive’s light tone. “Kandahar and Helmand. Pretty sure I  _ still  _ have sand in my boots.”

“Better than other places, I suppose.” Clive gave him a cheeky wink. “Sir.”

John gave a gentle chuckle. “So, how’d you end up here?”

“I’m not exactly sure. The inevitable conclusion to a series of ill-considered decisions, I suppose.” Clive placed a dramatic hand to his chest. “I am a feather for each wind that blows,” he intoned.

“Oh, Christ, that’s bloody Shakespeare, isn’t it,” John said, laughing. “You really are a cliche.”

John was still smiling as Cavendish came up behind them. “Well, I see you two are hitting it off. Thanks for keeping him out of trouble, John.” She took Clive’s arm and nodded toward the nurses’ station. “Come on then, I’ll introduce you to the day staff and they can get you started.”

John watched them go. Clive was sharp, he could already tell, and funny. Fit, too, he admitted to himself, letting his gaze sweep briefly down Clive’s broad back and long legs. He watched the other nurses take the measure of him. Male nurses weren’t all that common around here, but they seemed to take him in stride. It was probably his demeanor, easy and confident--he was the kind of person that put everyone at ease. It would be nice to have another veteran on the floor, John thought. That kind of discipline could come in handy.

\---

The rain kept everyone away that afternoon, and John found himself headed back to the Dreadnought well before sunset. Something was tickling at the edge of his consciousness, had been all afternoon, and as John closed his umbrella and reached for the door handle of the Dreadnought, he realised what it was: Clive reminded him of Joe, Cavendish’s old classmate, whom he’d left behind in D.C. The resemblance was more one of bearing than appearance, but now that he saw it, it could not be denied. The thought knocked the breath out of him, and he stumbled inside and collapsed on the sofa. John hadn’t let himself think of Joe since the day he started here, but now he found himself feeling the loss.

Joe had been only a colleague at first, a bored face across the conference table at staff meetings. John had soon recognized the man as his main competition for the chocolate cruller in the Friday donut box, which had led to a (mostly) friendly rivalry. Joe was...well. Kind of a dick, to be honest. Sharp witted and sharp tongued, overly confident, with a ridiculous addiction to poker and an almost obnoxious willingness to play the fool for a laugh.

He was also tall, dark haired, and light eyed, and a bloody fantastic surgeon. 

They’d needled each other constantly, barely staying on the teasing side of harsh, until the afternoon Joe had summoned John to assist with a complicated GI exploratory surgery. Nothing in the patient’s abdomen had been where it was supposed to be, everything caught up in tumors and adhesions, and the mood in the operating room had been tense. Through no real fault of his, Joe had nicked an artery, but he had barely had time to curse before John had caught it with a clamp and was wiping away the spray. In the locker room, after the surgery, Joe had pulled off his glove and silently squeezed John’s shoulder in gratitude, and just like that, they were friends. 

They’d started spending time together, sharing quick lunches in the staff room and desperately needed drinks after work. Joe would drag John to poker games on their off days, and John would drag Joe back into the daylight after hours of play. They fought and laughed, and it worked. On the bad days, Joe had tolerated John’s silences, and John had been grateful not to be alone.

John had purposely ignored the signs. He had to be wrong, he’d thought, when he’d allowed himself to wonder. John was broken, after all. He’d looked--still looked--ten years older than he was, too thin, shrunken, only able to muster a smile when he was busting someone’s balls. When the anger outweighed the sadness. When he had an act to put on.

But he’d seen Joe watching him sometimes, and he was almost certain he had seen that look in an eerily similar set of eyes before.

It had all come to a head when one stormy night, as John had sat head in hands on this very sofa, unable to sleep and aching with loss. Joe had come to the door with a two-thirds full bottle of bourbon and a pack of cards. John, of course, had let him in.

After the sixth round of 21 and the third round of drinks, Joe had leaned over and kissed him.

John had frozen, but only for a few seconds, and then, god help him, he had clutched at Joe’s jumper and held on, _ held on, _ and kissed back. It wasn’t perfect. John wasn’t sure it was even good, but Joe hadn’t seemed to mind, and they had opened their mouths and pressed closer and for the first time in over twenty months, John had felt...something. A lean body beside him, against him, awkwardly wrapped over and under him at the same time, and wanting him, for once, wanting him…and John was going to do it, give himself over, take and give pleasure with this body in turns. There was no doubt in his mind.

But then, but then, John had pulled away to take a breath, and a man’s name had come to his lips, but it hadn’t been the name of the man he was kissing, not even close. It was a name he never said now, never even let himself think, a name he’d last seen carved into a marble headstone thirty-five hundred miles away.

He hadn’t said the name, but he’d thought it, and he’d looked with terror into the eyes of the man who was here, now, holding him. And Joe had comforted him, held him closer, and said, “Shhh. I know all about him, and I know you loved him. It’s all right.”

But it hadn’t been all right, not at all, and John had left D.C. barely six days later.

\---

The rain stopped.

Autumn was beautiful here, John thought, as he stood in the open doorway of the Dreadnought, watching a flock of starlings do their dramatic twilight dance. He loved the colours of the trees, the smell of humus, the cold mornings and the warm afternoons. This far north, you could feel the days growing shorter, actually see it from day to day. Soon everyone would be wearing jumpers and thick socks, and they’d all be that much closer to the full dark of winter.

He watched the birds settle into the trees, and listened to their songs grow quiet as the light faded away. They knew, he thought, that the cold time was coming but they woke up each day and left their nests, programmed to survive. They were pragmatists more than optimists, really, but they made his corner of the world a little brighter. He made a mental note to buy some bird seed, and maybe a little feeder.

The stars were peeking through the broken clouds when he finally stepped back inside the RV and pushed the door shut. He was working tomorrow and he was looking forward to it. But now, the long evening stretched ahead of him, and he found himself wondering what to do.

_ It’s dinner time, _ the Voice said.  _ You should eat. _

John closed his eyes and let himself savor the irony of hearing those words in that voice. Still, it was reasonable advice, and he decided to take it.

Later, he sat on the sofa, nursing the day’s last cup of tea. He’d left the light on in the kitchen, but it was streetlight-dark in the lounge, and he idly counted the headlight beams sliding through the recently rain-washed windows. He’d ended up making pasta, and in fact had thrown the sauce together from scratch, along with a little salad; he’d found the whole process satisfying, almost comforting, and had toasted the results of his efforts with a single glass of surprisingly non-toxic grocery store pinot noir. Now he was relaxed, alert but not anxious, existing, for once, purely in the moment.

He heard a slight rustle at the door, and then a tentative knock. He frowned and glanced at the clock to be sure--yes, it was as late as he thought--but then pushed up to his feet, thankful he was actually wearing pajamas for a change.

He pushed open the door to find Clive bouncing on the toes of his athletic shoes at the bottom of the stairs. “Wow,” Clive said in greeting, smiling broadly. “You really do live in this thing. I thought everyone was having me on.” He nodded toward the hand painted wood plaque that John had screwed into the aluminum door panel. “The Dreadnought,” he intoned, and shook his head. “You named your caravan after an English warship. Christ, and you called  _ me _ a cliche.”

John blinked down at him, bemused. “Sorry, did you just come here to take the piss?”

Clive’s grin started to fade, and a slight blush started spreading across his cheeks. “Ah. Sorry. That was rather rude, wasn’t it. I didn’t mean to bother you, but...I was headed home, and I was passing by your, uh, vehicle, and the other nurses had told me that you lived here, and I thought, well, I thought you might like to join me. Tomorrow. For a run.”

John lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “A run.” 

“Well, yeah. You know, a run.” Clive was frowning in earnest now. “Fun. Exercise. I don’t know, I just like to run.” He gave a little shrug. “Thought you might like to come along, is all.”

John took a sip of his tea, trying to make sense of the invitation. “You’ve got the early shift tomorrow, don’t you?” 

Clive nodded.

“Jesus, what time do you get up?”

“Oh, five or so,” Clive answered easily. “If my work schedule allows it, anyway. Got in the habit while I was in the army, and just never gave it up. Get the worm, and all that. You know how it is.”

“Worm, right. Of course. Highly desirable, those worms.”

Clive’s smile resurfaced, tentative, but also hopeful this time. “So, how about it? Quick jog to get the blood flowing, maybe grab a coffee after? I’d really love the company.”

John frowned down at the near-empty mug in his hand. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think so, Clive. It’s just--I haven’t run since before I left the service. I was wounded, you know. I’m better now, but...well. It’s complicated.” He gave a small, apologetic shrug. “Anyway, I don’t even have running shoes.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I should have--” Clive started, but John held up his hand. 

“It’s fine, mate. No one knows. I mean, I don’t hide it, it’s just--I’m a bit out of the habit, is all.”

“I understand.” Clive nodded. “Well. I’ll let you rest, then. See you at work in the morning?” he asked, cheerfully, starting to bounce again.

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Clive nodded and turned to leave. He seemed to happy, John thought, so full of energy. “Hey, Clive?” John called out after him, impulsively.

Clive turned to face him again, an inquiring look on his face as he bounced in place. “Yes, Doctor?”

“Call me John.” John cleared his throat. “And...check in with me tomorrow? I’ll try to find some shoes.”

Clive’s face brightened. “You bet, John,” he said, grinning broadly and giving him a little finger waggle of a wave. “Sleep well.”

“You, too.” John watched after him until he reached the trail at the edge of the treeline and slipped out of sight. Clive must have found a place to live close by, he thought. He should remember to ask, when he saw him again. It would be nice to have a friend in the neighborhood.

All the clouds had passed, leaving the evening air crisp and cool. He should get some sleep. It had been a long day, and apparently he had to go shopping before work tomorrow. A little exercise would be good for him, he reasoned. 

He’d always liked running.

\---


	3. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms with what he's lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please note the new tag. John deals with a patient who's in a very bad way. Spoiler alert: it works out okay in the end. But please be careful, and take care of yourself. You can email me at callie4180 at gmail or leave me a message in the comments if you want to know more before reading.

John  _ hated _ running. He hated it with a passion. His hard breaths were visible in the icy air, and his ribs were almost rattling with effort. Despite the sub-freezing temperatures, he was dripping with an alarming amount of sweat. His heart was pounding, and his thighs were burning, and he was questioning every decision he’d ever made that had led him to his point. He finally crested the hill with a shout of satisfaction, pausing at the top to lean over, catch his breath, and wonder if he’d ever hated anything as much as he  _ hated running. _

“Come on, old man,” Clive called, jogging easily in place from ten yards ahead. “You can do better than this.”

John didn’t look up as he lifted one middle finger into the air. 

Clive laughed, shaking his head as he hopped back in John’s direction. “Now, now, Dr Watson. You’ll damage your kindly image with such coarse behaviors.”

“Ah, fuck my image,” John said as he straightened and ran his hands down his face. “Time?”

Clive checked his watch. “Fifty-seven seconds ahead of last week so far,” he said, approvingly. “Looks like I’m going to owe you a blueberry muffin.”

“Chocolate.” John grabbed his left shoulder and rotated his arm a couple of times, grimacing involuntarily. “And none of that low fat shit, either.”

Clive frowned as he watched him. “Shoulder tight today?”

John shook his head. “Nothing a hot shower won’t fix. Come on,” he said, nodding to the trail. “If I can get my total time down by two minutes, I’ll treat myself to real cream in my coffee.”

They ran on, the only sound the crunching of the dead, frozen grass beneath their feet. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright, and John spared a moment to be thankful for it. He probably wouldn’t be able to get another run in until after the weekend: an ice storm had been forecast, and the ER would inevitably be slammed. People around here had an unreasonable amount of faith in sand and salt trucks. Maybe he could claim some time on one of the hospital gym ellipticals in the mornings, he thought. It would be better than nothing. 

They rounded one last corner, and the hospital came into view. A minute later, they came to a halt in front of the RV. “Time?” John asked, as he reached overhead in a satisfying stretch.

Clive checked his watch again. “Cream and a muffin, but no butter. Not bad,” he said, grinning.

“Not bad? That’s brilliant, that is. I’ll be kicking your arse before too long, young man, you wait and see.”

“Yeah, sure.” Clive waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, hey, the holiday schedule went up today. I saw it when I dropped my stuff by the locker room this morning.”

“Really? Did you get the days off you asked for?”

“Mostly. No complaints, I guess.” Clive frowned and scuffed one foot against the pavement.

“Oh, that’s believable.” John reached back to pull his foot up behind him, grimacing at the stretch of his thigh muscles. “Something wrong? I’m sure you could go to Cavendish, if there’s a--” 

“It’s not me,” Clive interrupted. “It’s none of my business, anyway.”

John rolled his eyes. “Out with it, Abbott.”

“Okay, well, I saw that you signed up for holiday duty,” Clive said. “Both Christmas and New Year’s. That seems like a lot.”

“Oh. Yeah.” John gave a little shrug. “I don’t have any plans, so I might as well. Let the folks with families have it off.”

“I figured it was something like that,” Clive said, scuffing his foot again.

John released his foot and repeated the stretch on the other side. “What?”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

John lifted one eyebrow. “Mate, it’s too late now. What?”

“Okay, well..I worry you’ll burn out, is all. I mean, have you taken any time off since you’ve started here?”

“Where is this coming from?” John scowled with confusion. “I don’t work every single day, you know.”

“No, but you’re here, right?” Clive persisted. He motioned to the RV. “I mean, you literally live on the hospital grounds, and I see you checking on patients on your days off. You need to take a break sometime, John.”

“I’m fine. Why are you so worried?”

Clive shrugged. “Because I’m your friend, you idiot.”

John blinked, touched. He hadn’t been called an idiot in a long time. “I’m going to have to demand some respect, here, Nurse,” he said, but his voice was gentle.

“Doctor Idiot, then.”   

John chuckled. “That’s more like it.”

“The point still stands,” Clive continued. “I just think you should look after yourself better, is all.”

“Well, maybe I should start by not letting young punks drag my ancient arse up steep hills in arctic temperatures.” John nudged Clive’s shoulder with his own, and when Clive looked over, John gave him a little smile. “Look, I appreciate it, but I really am okay. All right? Now, I’m going to get my gear, head over to the hospital for a very hot shower, and then you, young man, are going to buy me a muffin.”

“One low-fat bran raisin yogurt muffin, coming right up!” Clive chirped, barely dodging John’s swat. “But listen, just...watch out for yourself, all right?”

John sighed. “I will, Mum, Jesus. Besides, I’m taking a few days off in January. Will that get you off my arse?”

Clive brightened. “Really? That’s great, John. Any plans?”

“I’m not sure,” John lied. “I’ll come up with something.”

\---

He let himself think about it in the shower.

They’d never celebrated, of course; that would have been foolishness. He’d probably never have heard the end of it, had he suggested it. Anyway, anniversaries were for couples, and they certainly hadn’t been that. They’d been...something. Friends, maybe. 

_ Colleagues, _ the Voice murmured sadly, a word that never failed to make John wince. 

Anyway. He wasn’t going to celebrate the anniversary of the day they’d met. Rather, he’d...mark it. No, he’d  _ observe _ it. That was the word, observe. He’d take the day and exist in it, face it, keep watch for the memories and feelings as they arose and assign them their proper place. In the past couple of years, he’d done his best to obliterate them. He’d dived into drink, or driving, or work, trying to forget that very first meeting, when their fingers had brushed so lightly along the side of John’s mobile, and the air of the laboratory had crackled with possibility.

But not this time. “Observing” implied impartiality and distance, and John thought (hoped) he was finally getting at least a little of each.

There was a mirror across from the stall in the little shower room, and for the first time in a long time, John paused to look. Honestly, he barely recognized himself these days. His hair was more than half silver now, an inevitable change wrought by both genetics and stress, but he’d been keeping it trimmed close, and the neat lines suited him. He’d gained weight in the past few months, mostly muscle; the combination of running and work had helped to carve it into shape. Even his skin looked better, more pink and gold than grey. Women (and men) would take a second look sometimes now, and it felt good to be noticed.

His eyes, though...John leaned forward, easing into the light from the vanity. Had his eyes changed? He couldn’t tell. They still seemed dark to him, and cautious, almost sad, the lines at the corners too deep to have come from laughter. Maybe others didn’t notice. They hadn’t known him before, after all. Or maybe, when he was around others, his eyes would light up from within, like they used to, like the eyes he used to see reflected in alleyway puddles and London shop windows. 

He sighed. There was nothing more he could do. Anyway, he had a muffin waiting.

\---

The days grew shorter. He worked just as hard as ever, ran when he could, drank too much coffee and tea in turns, and then suddenly, it was a week before Christmas.

The second floor coffee shop was awash in reds and greens, with garlands strung over the notice boards and a strand of fairy lights blinking over the condiment counter. John considered his limited options: Americans really doubled down on turkey this time of year. The woman behind the sandwich counter was wearing a Santa hat and wished him a friendly “happy holidays” as he picked up his plate and coffee cup and headed for the seating area. 

Cavendish waved at him from a table in the corner.

“I always forget this place is up here,” John said as he settled into the chair across from her. “I should come up here more often. It’s nice. Quieter than downstairs, anyway.” 

“A bit, yeah,” Cavendish agreed, looking around. “You don’t get as much of the public up here. Less choice on the menu, though.”

“Well, a turkey sandwich is a turkey sandwich,” he said, pulling a napkin from the dispenser. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been meaning to follow up with you on the training rosters for next quarter.”

“Next quarter?”

“Yeah, I was thinking…” He looked at her expression and paused. “What?”

She gave him a funny little half smile. “How long have you been here, John?”

“Not that long. Just a few...” His voice trailed off, and he bit into a carrot stick, counting in his head. His chewing slowed and then stopped all together. “Oh. Huh.”

“Right. You promised me six months, and we’re almost through seven.”

“Wow.” John blinked at her, stunned. “Wow,” he repeated, shaking his head. “How did that happen?”

“Well, off hand, I’d say you settled in, worked your ass off, and made some friends. Time passes when you’re busy.”

“Yeah. I guess.” He gave her a bright smile. “Well, then. Is this my six month review?”

“I suppose so. Dr Watson, as your supervisor, it is my duty to tell you…” She leaned across the table and put her hand on one of his, her dancing eyes meeting his own. “You don’t entirely suck.” 

They both laughed, and he toasted her with his coffee cup. “Ta for that.”

They chatted as they ate, exchanging bits of gossip and case notes, until her salad was gone and only a few of his crisps remained. A staff member wearing huge candy cane earrings cleared their plates, and they both settled back to finish their coffee. As John watched, Cavendish’s smile faded, and she took a deep breath. “Actually, John...there is one thing.”

He frowned at her sudden solemnity. “Go on.”

Cavendish hesitated again. “We’ve had an inquiry,” she said carefully, stirring her coffee steadily and not looking up from the spoon.

John blinked over his coffee cup in surprise. “An inquiry. You mean, a complaint? About what?”

“You, John,” she said evenly, still stirring. “And no, not a complaint, as such. More of a...demand for information.”

“Information,” John echoed. “About me? I don’t follow. Is this from the Medical Board? What did they want to know?”

She shook her head as she set down her spoon and reached for her handbag. After a few seconds of ruffling through the contents, she pulled out an index card. “I believe the exact phrase was, ‘an informal inquiry into Dr John Watson’s physical and emotional well being.’ They left an international telephone number. I think it’s a London exchange.”

“Oh.” The light dawned. There was only one person still out there who’d make such a demand, whose wish for information would take such an arrogant and obnoxious form. John had been avoiding his calls for literal years now. Of course he’d find me, John thought with resignation. It was only surprising that it had taken so long. “This was a verbal request, then?”

Cavendish nodded and slid the card across the table. “English woman. Sounded very...posh? That’s the term, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” So he’d had Anthea place the call. John felt a flare of anger, crisp and bright in the corners of his vision. “Yes, that is certainly the term.” He looked down at the card without touching it. The number hadn’t changed, and he wouldn’t have needed it anyway. He’d tried to delete the contact once, and it had shown up in his directory again less than an hour later. 

“I have to admit, it caught me off guard. I didn’t tell her anything, of course. Blathered on about state privacy law and hospital policy and all that.  She attempted to explain that my...how did she say it... _ cooperation _ would be both confidential, and not optional.” Cavendish grinned sharply, and not for the first time, John admired the bit of steel that was never far from the surface. “It was my pleasure to explain which freeway exit she could use on her way straight to hell.”

“Christ, I wish I’d heard that.” Anthea didn’t often meet her match, he’d wager, especially over the phone from the basement of a midwestern American hospital. 

“I don’t know that it had much effect,” Cavendish admitted. “She just said, ‘Very well. We’ll be in touch.’” It was a passable imitation, and John tried to smile his appreciation, but he was too awash in a mixture of rage and mortification to be convincing. 

“I’ll take care of it, Eugenia,”  he said, clasping and unclasping his hand under the table. “I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”

Cavendish waved his concern away. “You know her, then,” she noted. 

“Yes, I guess you could say that. She works for a man that…” John struggled for a way to explain. “Just someone I used to...know. Work with, sort of.” The words didn’t come easily, but he knew speaking the whole truth was out of the question.

She was watching him closely. “I could call her back for you, if you wanted. Say whatever you want me to say.”

“No need,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is all on me.”

“As you prefer.” Cavendish paused. “Is everything okay, John?” she asked, tentatively. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m great.” He shook his head and held up his hands, aware he was overdoing it.  _ “Everything’s _ great. I love it here, truly.” He forced a chuckle. “You weren’t kidding about the chili, though.”

Cavendish laughed. “But you had to try it for yourself, didn’t you. No one ever believes me, and they all suffer for it.” Her warm eyes narrowed. “Listen, though, if you need anything, you let me know, all right? I protect my troops. And if that means facing down some posh bitch who fancies herself a duchess, well, I stand ready.”

John had to smile. “Thank you. That means a lot. But I can handle this, don’t worry.” He checked his watch. “Shit, I’m about to be late. I’ll have to call after my shift.” He stood and gathered his coat. “She won’t bother you again,” he said with resolve.

He took the lift for once, and leaned his head against the cool steel wall as the doors slid shut. He was definitely getting a headache, and it had Mycroft Holmes’s name on it.

_ Bastard, _ the Voice mumbled, and John wholeheartedly agreed.

\---

The afternoon turned out to be a busy one. John had just silenced his pager when Della caught his arm in the hallway. He liked Della; she was gentle, kind, level headed, and once you got to know her, funny as hell. On quiet nights they’d sit back and exchange war stories, his from his days in the army and hers from having raised four boys. She wasn’t laughing now, though. In fact, she looked deadly serious as she pulled him over to a quiet corner.

“Heads up on this one, Doc,” she said as she handed him a clipboard. “He’s headed to the Psych floor next. Repeat customer.”

“Shit,” John said, quickly flipping through the chart. “Pills?”

Della shook her head. “Not this time. Intake form says it was a kitchen accident, but…”

“Ah. Self trauma with intent.” He sighed. “Did he mean it, do you think?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. He lost his partner last year. It was unexpected.”

John frowned. “Car accident?”

“Suicide.”

The word itself was a weapon, the sharpest knife in the drawer, and John drew in a sharp breath as it hit him in the gut. He closed his eyes and saw it clearly in his mind’s eye, seven letters in a bold font next to a checked box on a coroner’s report that he never should have been allowed to see. His knees were suddenly less committed to maintaining an upright position than he would have preferred, and he sagged against the wall. 

“Doc? You need a chair?” Della asked.

John gave her a wan smile. “No, thanks. I’m just tired,” he said, distantly pleased that his voice sounded steady. This was going to be a disaster, he could already tell.  “Look, my shift is almost over. Is there anyone else?”

Della clucked her tongue. “Not really. We’re down one, you know, with Kevin out. Marcie’s in, but she’s handling that kid with asthma in four, and anyway she’s so new, and with Psych in the offing…”

“No, you’re right.” John sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “You’re right. I’ll do it. I--just need a minute first.”

Della looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

_ No, _ he thought. “I’m fine,” he said, and gave his best imitation of a reassuring smile. “Like I said, just tired.”

“I’ll have fresh coffee for you when you come out,” Della said, patting his arm. “But you’d better get going.”

John looked over at the exam room door. “All right,” he said, and, drawing up his courage, forced his feet to move.

The patient didn’t look up as John entered the room. He sat on the exam table, staring at the floor, perfectly still. He was pale, John noticed immediately, and his face had faint streaks of salt from where he had obviously been crying, but now he just looked detached, almost resigned. Shock, maybe, but the vitals in his chart seemed stable. Just exhausted, then, and brought low by the pain.

John cleared his throat. “Mr Reilly?” The man barely nodded in reply. “I’m Dr Watson. Let’s take a look at that arm.”

Reilly held his towel-wrapped arm out without a word. John slipped on some gloves and gently peeled the towel away, revealing a long, ragged wound reaching several inches from the base of his hand down his inner arm. The man watched John’s careful examination without expression, enduring what must have been a considerable amount of discomfort without a sound.

“Kitchen knife?” John finally asked, working hard to sound neutral.

The man sighed and nodded. John only hummed in reply. There were faint scars at both of Reilly’s wrists, some more recent than others, but none from injury this severe. This was escalation. John kept a politely interested expression on his face, but his thoughts were racing. His patient was very much in danger, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

_ Stay calm, _ the Voice said. _ One thing at a time. _

Right. Triage. Treat the most urgent problem first. 

“Well, this could have been a lot worse, to be honest,” John said, in a steady, calm tone. “I’m going to get you numb, and then we’ll get you stitched up. You’ll need antibiotics, I think, and some pain meds for sure. There will be a scar, but this should heal pretty well.”

Reilly nodded and cleared his throat. “Carry on, Doctor,” he murmured.

“I’ll just grab the local. Won’t take but a second,” John said, and moved to the cabinet nearest the door to pull up some lidocaine. He felt Reilly’s eyes on his back as he filled the syringe. “I think I’ll use suture instead of staples, if that’s all right. It will take longer, but I think…”

“Does it bother you?” Reilly interrupted.

Easy now, John thought. Stay calm. “Does what bother me?”

“That there’s no point.”

John capped the syringe deliberately and slowly turned to face him. “Of course there’s a point.”

Reilly narrowed his eyes. “I know they told you.”

John nodded. “Yes.”

“This isn’t my first time.”

“I know.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Reilly said, quite matter of fact. So they were going to do this. John knew the willingness to talk about it was a good sign.

_ Do you now, _ the Voice said, dry and amused. John clenched his jaw. Not now, he thought fiercely, as a flood of emotion threatened. He remembered how it felt to step out of that hospital into the quiet street outside Bart’s, called away by a cruel lie, terrified for one friend and bloody livid at another. The last time they’d stood in a room together, they’d fought. They’d  _ fought, _ and John should have known better. “Friends protect people” echoed in his mind, and oh god the irony...

He closed his eyes, locking the memory away. He couldn’t change what had happened, no matter how hard he wished for it, but this patient needed him at his best now. 

John opened his eyes. “It’s Christopher, right?”

Christopher gave him a sharp nod of acknowledgement. 

John drew in a deep breath. “Christopher, do you want to die?”

Christopher blinked in surprise. “That’s...rather blunt, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“First, call me John. Second, you’re the one who brought it up. And I do expect an answer.”

A second blink. He’s engaged, John thought. Christopher appeared to be giving the question serious thought, and that was a big improvement over the passivity of before. John could feel the ticking of the exam room clock rather than hearing it. He was afraid to move.

“Very well. The answer is, not especially,” Christopher finally said, slowly. “I think it’s more that I just can’t stand to live.”

Relief flooded through John’s body, but he struggled not to let it show. They were connecting. Now he just had to keep it going. “You lost someone.”

Christopher didn’t bother to answer, but John saw him swallow, and tears glistened in his eyes.

“Someone you loved,” John continued, as gently as he could, and Christopher closed his eyes tightly and looked away. “Do you want to tell me?”

Christopher swallowed again. “Tell you what?” he whispered to the wall.

John offered a tiny, encouraging smile. “Anything.”

“Oh,” Christopher breathed. A tear ran down his cheek. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well,” John said, moving closer. “Let me get started on your arm, and we can talk as we go.”

John took his arm gently, and Christopher hissed as he placed the first injection of lidocaine at the edge of the wound. John patted his hand in sympathy. “How long were you together?” he asked quietly.

Christopher gave a sad little chuckle. “Exactly thirty-seven months to the day.” The tension eased around his eyes a bit as the numbness started to take hold, but he still looked incredibly, impossibly sad. He flexed his fingers, watching John work. “Our first date was on my birthday. Exactly one year later, he asked me to move in. On our next anniversary, he gave me a puppy. We named him Harvey.” He smiled softly, but after a few seconds, the smile faded. “He’s living with my sister now.”

“It’s all right,” John said, as he started swabbing the wound with antiseptic. “Go on.”

“I thought...I thought we were happy. We rented a townhouse. Fabulous kitchen, lots of light. I commuted downtown, and he set up a little home office.” Christopher smiled wistfully. “He was an accountant, a good one. He was pretty busy, but he liked it.”

“I see.” John opened a packet of suture material, nodding to show he was still listening.

Christopher was quiet for a long minute, watching as John placed the first stitch. “I knew he had problems, you know?” he said quietly, and John ached at the regret in his voice. “He’d been in therapy for a while in college, and he’d tried meds, but they wiped out his memory and made him too tired to work, so he gave them up. He’d get down. Like, really down. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t sleep...sometimes his work was all that would get him off that goddamn couch.”

John sighed as he clipped off the next knot. Christ, did that sound familiar.

“But I tried, you know?” Christopher said, and John glanced up to see fresh anger in his eyes. “I did everything I could think of, read books, looked online, talked to counselors, but then…you know how I know exactly how long we were together? He waited until one month after my birthday to do it. Exactly  _ thirty fucking days, _ like I wouldn’t notice that. ‘Ooh, better wait a month. Wouldn’t want to ruin Christopher’s birthday.’ Like one month would be enough. Like that day would  _ ever  _ again be something to celebrate. Like I’d  _ forget.” _

John silently held out a tissue, and Christopher all but snatched it from his hand.

“They’ll take me to Psych now,” Christopher continued, his voice growing angrier now with every word. “Group meetings, therapy. Balanced meals and enforced showers. Donuts on Thursdays. Fucking  _ yoga. _ Telling me to  _ find my center _ as though I didn’t get thrown into a cup and shaken like fucking Yahtzee cubes. They’ll make me get out of bed every day and get dressed and eat and walk in the goddamn garden. They will talk and talk and talk, trying to get to the secrets inside me when there aren’t any left, because I’m  _ empty, _ and they’ll never tell me what I  _ need to know.”  _ He ended on a near shout, and the sudden silence that followed was almost shocking.

John was paralyzed, staring and breathless, but he couldn’t help but ask. “What do you need to know?” he whispered. A long minute passed as the two stared at each other, until Christopher finally blinked and looked away.

“How to stop seeing his eyes,” Christopher said to the floor, his voice hushed and confessional. Another tear slid down his cheek and dripped off his chin. “They were so fucking beautiful. The most perfect brown, deep brown, like chocolate. Like  _ good _ chocolate. _ Luxury _ chocolate. And his eyelashes were so long, they would brush against his sunglasses when he blinked. It would drive him crazy.”

He met John’s eyes again, and John couldn’t look away.

“I see his eyes  _ all the fucking time,” _ Christopher continued. “When I’m driving, when I’m sleeping, sitting here now...he was always watching, Jesus. He never missed anything. So tell me, Doctor…” He leaned toward John, expression dark and serious. “How is it that he never saw what his leaving would do to me?”

John reeled at the despair in Christopher’s voice, the desolation in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know.”

“Well, maybe he did know. Maybe he did see it,” Christopher said, suddenly deflating. “He was an accountant, after all. He loved economy, everything in its columns. He’d be proud of the bargain he made.” The tears started again, in earnest this time. “With one blade, he killed us both.” His voice faded to nothing, and he slumped back against the wall, covering his eyes with his uninjured hand.

John watched him, feeling helpless. He remembered that grief, the pain that left the head confused, empty and echoing, and the blood turning to dust in the heart. When the lungs were too soaked with sorrow to manage the air it took to tell the simple, crucial truth: not just “he left,” but “he left  _ me." _ The worst of the horror was in that object, John thought, though the rest of the sentence was horrible enough. Everyone lost him, but he left  _ me. _

He waited, listening, but for once the Voice was suspiciously, almost guiltily, silent. It had weight, that silence.

“Christopher,” he said slowly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know you, and I didn’t know him, but you’ve read about how this all works. You know his decision wasn’t about you. Would he want you to think like this?”

Christopher dropped the hand from his eyes as the fury flashed again, and with an abrupt shake, he knocked John’s hand from his shoulder. “Do you think it matters? He’s  _ dead. _ He gave up his vote. He could have had everything from me, forever, and it wasn’t enough to keep him here. I don’t know what he would want and I fucking  _ hate  _ him for not being here to tell me.” He wiped at his eyes and shook his head. “You’re very kind to listen,” he said, the anger fading as quickly as it had flared, “but you couldn’t possibly understand.”

John surprised them both by wrapping a hand around Christopher’s neck and pulling him forward into his shoulder, more of a brace than a hug. “I understand better than you know,” he whispered fiercely. Christopher whimpered as he reached up to wrap his hands around John’s biceps and held on. John felt the renewed sobs more than heard them, felt the weight of his lab coat as it started to collect tears. “Listen to me,” he said, low and certain, directly into Christopher’s ear. “Go to the meetings. Do the fucking yoga. Take up running, or learn to cook. Or don’t. But  _ breathe. _ Take one step, and then the next. Dive into the pain, do you hear me? Scream when you have to. Find a way. Dive down as deep as you can, and then let the water lift you back up, because  _ it will.” _

Christopher gasped, a reflex denial, but John tightened his hand on the back of his neck. “It  _ will,”  _ he insisted. “One day your taste will come back, and you’ll enjoy something sweet. Or a joke will actually strike you as funny, so you’ll laugh, and yeah, you’ll feel guilty about it after, but the next time will be easier. You wait for it,  _ you wait, _ goddamn it, because we need you, all right? We all  _ need you.” _

Christopher collapsed against him, sobbing in earnest, and John wrapped his arms around him and held on. There was nothing else he could do.

It took a few minutes, but the storm finally passed, and Christopher’s crying slowed and then stopped. He sniffed. “I hate yoga,” he said.

John chuckled. “Christ, me too,” he said. “I am a fan of arses in stretchy pants, though, so there’s that.”

Christopher sniffed again. “My arm hurts.”

John nodded. “It will heal.”

_ “Everything _ hurts.”

“That just means you’re alive.”

“How do you know?” Christopher pulled back and searched John’s face. “How do you know it will get better?”

“I just do.” John gave him a sad smile. “Trust me.”

\---

John sat on the sofa, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, staring blindly at the wall opposite. He’d poured a glass of whiskey when he came in, but it sat untouched on the table in front of him. He’d left the lights off. 

He’d been a doctor for a long time. He’d worked trauma units, served in war. He’d seen the end results of many horrible crimes, innocent lives ended in violence. It wasn’t an easy job on a good day, and he’d always been one to throw himself into the deep end. But one obvious exception aside, he’d be hard pressed to come up with a more heartbreaking sight than his last vision of Christopher Reilly.

They’d left the room together. The Psych orderly had been waiting outside, and Christopher had gone quietly. John had watched them as they walked away. Christopher’s shoulders had been slumped with exhaustion and sadness, probably had been for a while--but as they turned the corner toward the lifts, Christopher had looked back, lifted his good arm, and gave a little wave. 

It was one of the bravest acts John had ever witnessed, and he’d smiled and waved back, but oh, how his heart had ached, because now he knew that he and Christopher shared a secret burden: hope. 

At John’s worst, when the knife blade of grief had still been buried deep in his abdomen, when breathing was only a reflex and eating a way of marking time on a clock that otherwise never seemed to move, John’s therapist had called and demanded to see him. He’d pulled himself together and gone in, knowing it would be pointless. Words had failed him then; the truths he’d carried had been too painful to be spoken aloud. So, frustrated, almost scrambling, she’d resorted to platitudes. “Only in the darkness can you see the stars,” she’d told him, and, “hope is the only thing stronger than fear.” He’d nodded, and thanked her. “Hold On, Pain Ends,” she’d said earnestly, clasping his hand as he’d stood to leave. She’d wanted him to call her the next day to set up an appointment for three days hence. He’d nodded politely and later, over a pint at his local, deleted her number from his phone. 

She’d been worried he would end it, he realized now, that he would reach for pills or a gun or the cold of the Thames, but she needn’t have been concerned. He’d thought then that carrying on was weakness, that the last thing he could have faced was more darkness. Now he saw it in a different light; through that whole dark time, he’d been trying to cling, reflexively, desperately, to life. 

Every day, no matter how vicious the dreams had been the night before, no matter how bloody fucking sad he was, he’d drag himself out of bed and force himself out the door. He’d watch children playing at a park; he’d eat; he’d stop to look at a flower, or a dog, or the sunset over the river, desperate to find just a hint of pleasure, a touch of balm for his tender soul. Sometimes he’d catch a flicker of  _ something, _ a little tingle, but it would be gone before he could name it. Still, though, he’d carry on, marginally renewed, vague thoughts of brighter skies and better days echoing in his booze and sorrow-soaked brain. It was hell, but he kept going. That was the absolute worst thing about hope: it would pull you off the ropes, wipe your face, stop the bleeding, and then hold you up supportively, lovingly, so you could take the next punch. 

He hadn’t been chased away from his home by Christmas carols on a busker’s violin, he saw now. He’d run on his own from the city he loved, finally, from his friends, from himself, because some part of him _ hoped _ there was a place where he wouldn’t feel pain. He’d  _ hoped _ he could find meaning again. He’d  _ hoped _ that even scarred and broken as he was, he’d had something to offer. His life had been a brutal storm, but he’d  _ hoped _ that someday the clouds would part. 

He’d thought all this time he’d been running  _ from; _ it had never occurred to him that maybe he was running  _ to. _

John drew in a deep breath, and reached for his drink. He was tired in a way he didn’t often admit. There was a smudge of blood on the sleeve of his lab coat, no bigger than a fingerprint. He thought again of Christopher, and the ghosts that would haunt him this Christmas: the eyes of his lover, closed now forever. And now it was time for John to be honest; he might be meant to survive, to heal, possibly even (though it still seemed impossible) to thrive, but he, too, had a ghost, and he didn’t want to give him up.

It wasn’t the eyes. The eyes--the eyes  _ were, _ no doubt, as were the hands, and the cheekbones, and the stupid fucking coat, but. It was the voice. The Voice. He heard it all the time, and that was--that was all right, really, except that in the bad times, the dark nights, the long, pointless drives, he could  _ feel _ it. The deep rumble of it, the honey of it on his skin, if never on his tongue. It was the call to arms of a fellow soldier, a panicked cry, laughter in a warm flat at the end of a long day. Yelling down into the phone. Murmuring instructions into his ear, so low it was almost subsonic. John would drive to get away from it, but he’d still hear it, long after he’d turned off the ignition, sometimes almost all the way through the third glass of whiskey.

He’d loved him, god how he’d loved him. If only he'd known at the time.

Now, tonight, with the night growing cold and quiet, the Voice hummed, grumbled, sighed, saying without words what John most needed to hear: that John was not alone, that he should carry on, that tomorrow would be better, that he too was being lifted by the water he’d dived into blindly.

John poured another drink and told the Voice to piss off, knowing he’d wake up tomorrow and hear it again anyway.

John didn’t answer Clive’s knock the next morning, or the morning after that. On the third day, though, when Clive came round, John was sitting on the top step, jumper on and trainers tied, waiting. It was a foggy day, misty and cold, but John’s breath came easily and his steps were sure. 

They ran. John got a croissant and real cream in his coffee. It was a quiet day at work. The clouds cleared off just before sunset, and the night sky was clear and beautiful.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have to thank both Jen and Kedgeree for 1) reading this on short notice and 2) giving me brilliant, honest feedback. I adore you both.


	4. Late Winter: January 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd met three years ago, on January 29th. John doesn't mark time only by the seasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this at the end of 221b Con 2018. We're coming into the home stretch now. Thank you for your patience.

John awakened early and immediately alert, aware of the date with his first conscious breath. His life had changed forever three years ago, with the  flash of ice-colored eyes and a baffling text about a green ladder.

When the first of these anniversaries had come around, he’d greeted the morning roaring drunk and without having slept; last year, he’d called out of work early, pulled the blankets over his head, and spent the entire day in bed, hungry and lonely. This year, though, he’d pledged two things: to treat himself kindly, and to keep busy. With this in mind, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and his trainers and started walking toward the new bakery in town. The weather seemed to mirror his mood; tentative, not cloudy, but not sunny either. It was the type of weather that wanted to improve, but had yet to found a schedule it could commit to.

He’d worried the bakery would be crowded, but apparently he’d timed it just right. He ordered a cinnamon roll the size of a head of cabbage and a cup of hazelnut coffee and turned from the counter to survey the scene. After careful consideration, he’d settled into a comfortable armchair to enjoy his breakfast while flipping through the local newspaper. He blinked down at the police blotter, and then shook his head and turned the page. Not today, he thought, as he started scanning the baseball box scores.

The walk home was pleasant, the sky brighter than before.

He scrubbed out his little bird feeder, dried it well, and filled it with a new type of seed meant to appeal to songbirds as well as the less discriminating starlings. There had been a new song in the air yesterday, pure, light, and rhythmic, and a few minutes on Google had indicated it was the song of a Northern Cardinal. He admired the picture; it was a beautiful bird, elegant and bright. He hoped the new seed would lure the bird close enough to see. He liked the idea of that splash of vibrant red against the tans and greys of the Racine winter.

He read for a while, and listened to music, and went for a run, but didn’t time it. He spent quite a few minutes cleaning the kitchen, smiling quietly in gratification at the gleaming surfaces and fresh citrus smell. He made himself a sandwich on freshly baked whole wheat bread from the bakery, and then took the time to savor it. They’d had some local honey for sale at the bakery as well, and he mixed a spoonful into his tea. It was surprisingly flavorful, deep and rich in a way he hadn’t expected, and he made a note to try it with his toast in the morning. 

He considered turning on the television, but the odds of coming across something upsetting seemed too great, so he snuck over to the little building behind the main hospital and charmed the physical therapy tech into letting him have twenty peaceful minutes in the whirlpool tub. Cavendish would have had his arse if she’d caught him (more for being at the hospital on his day off than anything else), but he managed to avoid detection and returned to the RV, relaxed and freshly showered, just as the sun was starting to set.

It was a little too early for supper, so he sat on his stairs and watched the starlings weave and dance and get ready to spend the night in their nests. Their songs, layered and persistent in the silver twilight, echoed among the trees and off the pavement of the parking lot to create a feeling of satisfaction, a benediction for another day seen to and put to bed. John thought they, too, were ready for spring. It got dark here so early this time of year.

It was full night and cold by the time he went inside to heat up his supper, a bowl of leftover stew one of the nurses had insisted he pack up and take home after a potluck at the nursing station a couple of days before. Bowl rinsed, he stood in the lounge area and wondered what the hell he could do to keep himself busy now. The day’s significance still hummed in his brain, low and steady in the back of his mind. 

He walked over and turned on the light over the dining table. Slowly, he pulled his laptop over and opened it, watching the screen go dark again when he didn’t touch the keys.

He’d been distracting himself all day, watching himself from a distance and making polite conversation in his head when memories threatened to surface. It hadn’t been bad, exactly, but it was strange to have this sense of remove. Maybe...maybe enough time had passed and it wouldn’t hurt to remember. He’d written about it once, that day from lifetimes ago, their meeting, in lighthearted, shallow terms, in the way you tell a silly story you’ll soon forget. But it hadn’t been silly, as it turned out, and he certainly hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t looked at his blog in years, but he was thinking that maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’d like to read it. He traced his fingertips across the keys, frowning, wondering.

His mobile buzzed, and he glanced at the name on the screen. His frown deepened. He surprised himself by answering.

“Mycroft.”

There was a long pause on the other end; John had apparently caught him off guard by picking up. He hadn’t played this kind of game with Mycroft in a long time, so it was nice to start out a point up.

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft finally said, smooth as ever. “It’s a pleasure to hear your voice. I was becoming concerned that you were avoiding me.”

No use arguing that one. “I was. I have been.”

Mycroft sniffed. “Why?”

John leaned back in his chair, smirking. “I didn’t think you needed me to actually answer to triangulate my location.”

“Ah.” Mycroft cleared his throat. John knew he was trying to sound embarrassed, but he also knew better than to believe it. “Did it ever occur to you that I might actually desire to speak with you? That I would wish to ascertain your well being?”

“Not really…I guess I was too hung up on the  _ me _ not wanting to talk to  _ you _ part to think it through.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Mycroft answered with a faint hint of hurt.

John just rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“You took the day off today.”

John sighed. “What do you really want, Mycroft?”

“Are you well? You haven’t missed work in a long time.”

“I’m bloody perfect, and this is the last time I’m asking.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. “I have a bit of news. I thought you might like to know that I saw your Mrs Hudson yesterday. We had tea.”

“Hmm.” John chuckled. “Had a pint with Lestrade too, I’m sure.”

Mycroft didn’t answer, and John closed his eyes. Despite the weak attempt at snark, Mycroft had to know he had him. “How was she?”

“She’s well,” Mycroft answered. “Her hip has been bothering her. She planted some herbs in her window boxes, which seem to be thriving. The neighbors are as they ever were. She seemed a bit lonely, to be honest, glad for an hour of company. She’d made lemon pastries with…”

“Raspberry jam, right? Christ, Mycroft. They were…” It almost slipped, he almost said the name, but he managed to swallow it back at the last minute. “They were our favorites, and you have to have known that.  _ God," _ he bit out, looking up at the ceiling and blinking back the tears that suddenly threatened. A light hint of lemon cleaning products still hovered in the air. “You are such a prick. Why are you doing this?”

There was a moment’s pause. “You give me too much credit," Mycroft said at last.

John laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Do I? Do I really?”

A longer pause now. “Monitoring you at a distance has become logistically difficult. This quest of yours is excessive and unnecessary.” 

“This  _ quest _ is my life, Mycroft. You could just leave me alone, you know.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Mycroft said, a hint of regret in his voice. “You must surely be aware that our mutual…”

“Stop.” John’s voice, sudden, harsh, and flat, echoed off the fiberglass walls and made his own ears ring. “You will  _ not.” _

The silence that followed lasted at least one full minute.

“John,” Mycroft said at last, quiet and serious. “I do apologize. It seems from this conversation that that particular wound is still...fresh.”

“Yeah.” John ran one hand down his face. “Yeah,” he said again, more softly. “Of course it is.”

“I don’t wish to cause you further pain,” Mycroft said, still subdued. “But I...well.” He gave a deep sigh. “I carry a debt that will never be paid.”

John frowned. The anger at Mycroft’s betrayal hadn’t completely faded, really, but it had become less immediate. Sometimes John forgot that Mycroft had suffered a loss, as well. 

The silence stretched out between them. When it finally came, Mycroft’s voice was almost apologetic. “For the record, Dr Watson, this latest location was fairly hard to find.”

John snorted. “Why do I find that absolutely impossible to believe?”

“I’m not omniscient.”

“No, I know.” John sighed again. “Just bloody intrusive.”

“I just don’t understand. What are you doing, John?”

“I think the answer to that must be obvious.”

“On the surface, perhaps. You’re in Racine, Wisconsin, practicing basic medicine on basic Americans.”

“I’m practicing  _ good _ medicine on  _ deserving _ Americans.” John could hear his voice getting tight. “They need me, Mycroft.”

“They got by without you before,” Mycroft observed. “They will again.”

“Yeah, well, they won’t have to find out, will they.”

John could almost see Mycroft’s eye roll. “Your innate stubbornness, while useful at times, is not serving you well in this instance. You’re wasting your talent, wasting yourself.” Mycroft drew in a deep breath, and John instinctively braced himself. “He wouldn’t want this, John.”

John felt the blow land, but concentrated on staying calm. “He took care of the underprivileged, you know.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Ah yes, his Homeless Network. His ragtag army of misfits.”

John bristled. “He cared for them.”

“He  _ used  _ them.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, does it,” John snapped. He stopped short of stating the obvious; he truly detested Mycroft, but he didn’t need to throw his brother’s death in his face.

There was another long pause, and finally, Mycroft sighed. “You should come home, John.”

“I am home, Mycroft. I am sitting at my kitchen table, warm and comfortable, in my home.”

“You are sitting in a recreational vehicle in a parking lot in Racine, Wisconsin.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“You wouldn’t even have to work, you know. You could write. You miss it, don’t you?”

John was abruptly furious. He slapped the laptop closed. “Are you fucking watching me right now?” he growled.

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?” Mycroft sounded a little sad. “There will be work in London when you’re ready to come home, Dr Watson. We’ll be waiting.”

“Go to hell.” 

John clicked the phone off and dropped it onto the table, huffing angrily at the ceiling. He looked down at the laptop, but the moment had passed, brushed away by Mycroft’s peculiar combination of sentiment and arrogance. He shouldn’t have answered the phone, he thought. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, he realized with surprise. Maybe...yes, he’d go to the English-style pub in town. He’d have a pint, watch some rugby. Fleetingly, it occurred to him to wonder if this had been Mycroft’s plan all along, to drive him out into society, but it didn’t matter in the long run. He’d managed to survive the day; a few more hours would see him on to tomorrow, and then to February, and then, before too long, on to spring. He reached for his jacket and checked for his keys.

The Voice stayed silent. It had been quiet all day, he realized, as he started walking to town.

It snowed the next day, big fat flakes that turned the sky to steel and coated the cars and pavement. It was beautiful, John supposed, taking a sip of his coffee as he stared out his window. It was beautiful, and it was quiet. Snow muffled the sounds of the hospital and the town beyond, leaving John with a sense of isolation that put him strangely on edge. 

“We’ll be waiting,” Mycroft had said in that perfect plummy accent. That “we” had echoed in his head all night, and still tingled in his fingertips this morning.

The snow continued to fall, thick and silent, a last reminder of nature’s volatility before the earth’s rotation pushed this city irretrievably into spring.

He watched the ground turn white, his thoughts turning to snow falling on the trees in Regent’s Park, dusting the Baker Street bus stop, clinging precariously to the awning over the door to Speedy’s. London didn’t get this quiet in the snow, he thought wistfully. London never got quiet.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as ever, to Jen and Kedgeree. They've been saints to work with on this (especially last chapter). Their gracious efforts continue to make this work immeasurably better.


	5. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't know what's happening. All he'd wanted was a piece of lemon tart.

The world continued to spin, kept making its way around the sun. The last of the snow melted, and tendrils of green began to wind around the corners of slowly lengthening days. Not for the first time, John looked out at the landscape and thought that spring really was the most American of seasons: exuberant, bright, and only occasionally under control. Hours of raging storms, wet and cold and forceful, alternated with days so blue they dazzled. Grass forced its way up through pavement still dirtied with the mud of winter. There was so much  _ energy _ everywhere, so much potential exploding across fields, crawling through the limbs of trees, flowing through the wings of butterflies, splashing through the air in birdsong. Sometimes, John had to laugh at the notion that he’d ever found this place quiet.

Spring in England was a more fragile thing, he remembered fondly. In London, particularly, the signs were tentative at first, just a shy, subtle warming that people were hesitant to mention, for fear the attention might drive it away. On the second or third pleasant day in a row, passersby would nod to each other, faint but genuine smiles on their faces, cautiously sharing the gentle, quiet hope that they’d managed, once again, to survive the worst. Spring in England waited patiently in the foyer to be invited in, hopeful of a warm welcome, whereas spring in America came tearing through the door with balloons in hand, screaming at the top of its lungs. He’d never get used to the difference, he thought ruefully. He was just too British. 

He’d never get used to the pollen either, Christ. He put a large box of tissues next to his bed and made a note to check the sample drawer in the doctors’ lounge for antihistamines and eye drops. It was going to be a long, sniffly few months.

Nevertheless, John began sitting out on the roof of the Dreadnought again, savoring the longer days. At first he needed his coat, but then just a jumper and thick socks would do, and before too long he was stretching out in a t-shirt and shorts, savoring the warmth of the sun on his nose and knees. On especially beautiful evenings, Cavendish or Clive or sometimes both would hike across the parking lot after work and climb up to join him. They’d share a six pack of beer or a bottle of wine, just watching the sun go down together, laughing and teasing. Somehow, in this most unlikely of places, he’d managed to find a couple of friends, and he was damn glad for them.  It was more than he’d thought to hope for in a long, long time.

But then it would reach full dark, and they’d all stagger down the ladder, and John would wish them a pleasant night and pull the door shut behind him. He’d take a deep breath, close his eyes, and allow himself to remember what he’d kept at arm’s length all night: long nights spent in far-ranging conversation, cheap scotch in hand, two sets of legs tangled together and nearly touching in front of a Westminster hearth. The Voice was only a mumble in these memories, an intimate hum of laughter and fondness. The flush of alcohol in his veins would remind him of the warmth of the fire and for a moment or two, he’d smile. That it didn’t always hurt to remember now had to be some sort of progress. He’d have to quit drinking someday, he supposed, if he wanted to completely put those nights behind him.

He always kept a bottle of wine on hand.

John’s dreams had changed, too. He’d noticed it a couple of weeks after his last conversation with Mycroft (or rather, after he’d told Mycroft to go to hell, as he preferred to remember it, and the thought never failed to make him smile), but it had taken him some time to accept that the change was permanent. He no longer woke screaming, mind ablaze with the memory of dark curls askew on the pavement, unseeing eyes, a cold, still wrist, and blood smeared across pale, beautiful skin. Now the dreams were warmer, brighter, more kinetic; his own body, strong and ready, running across Westminster Bridge, down the banks of the Thames, around dodgy Brixton corners, with a leaner, long-limbed, and wholly welcome body close behind. The sun was always shining in these dreams: Big Ben shimmered, taxis gleamed, and the river was blue and clear. He’d wake from these dreams, alert, rested, with a gentle sense of longing instead of the soul-rip of terror he’d grown used to. His bed was no longer a battlefield, and he was grateful.

Two yellow-tipped birds, recently returned from their winter escape, started building a nest in one of the trees next to the RV. It was a fascinating process to watch. The male performed all the formal rituals of courtship, boastful songs and elaborate puffery. The nest itself was a wonder of engineering, thoughtfully placed and carefully lined with the softest materials nature had to offer. John found himself cheering for the couple. They were lesser goldfinches, a quick Google search told him, devoted thistle eaters, and he adjusted the seed type in his feeder accordingly. He’d find himself staring out at the sudden, almost violent storms when they came, worrying over the little creatures in their unroofed, raw home. There was nothing he could do, he knew, but he had an uncontrollable, visceral response to the idea of anything falling to the ground in front of him.  _ That  _ was never going to get any better. 

Those bastard cardinals were still making themselves scarce, though he would hear them at sunset, the calls clear and sad.

\---

“How’re the McNuggets?” Clive asked John brightly one morning, jogging in place as was his energetic and thoroughly annoying habit. 

John sighed. “No eggs yet, and quit calling them that, arsehole,” he said, as he turned to lock the door of the RV. He crouched down to tie his running shoes, groaning with the movement.

“Jesus, Grandpa, listen to you. Sit down on the stairs before you hurt yourself.”

John blinked up at him. “I really hope we still know each other when you reach my age. I will be  _ merciless.” _

Clive looked away and shook his head, chuckling. “Nah, age mellows people out. You’ll be too busy playing bridge and looking forward to the Early Bird Special at the local diner to worry about my arse.”

John pushed himself to standing, determinedly holding back another moan. “You dangerously underestimate my appetite for revenge,” he said evenly, as he twisted and stretched. “Retirement will just give me more time to plot.”

“Bah,” Clive said, batting his words away. “We should get you shoes with Velcro closures. Or maybe we should just set up a bench out here. You know? With nice, soft cushions and really strong armrests so you can drag yourself to standing. Ooh, and you can get a patch of fake grass that you won’t have to mow, and one of those bright windsocks so you’ll know if the combover for your bald patch will survive the day. What do you say?”

“You only think you’re funny, you know,” John said drily. 

“Sod off, I’m hilarious,” Clive shot back. “You can leave the lawn chairs, though. That blue chair is my favorite place on this planet. I’ve finally got the seat sagging just the way I like it.”

John chuckled. “Speaking of sagging seats, aren’t you meant to be running? Best get a move on there, laddie.”

Clive rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” They started running, heading at a steady jog toward the path in the southwest corner of the parking lot that they’d been favoring lately. “It’s your day off today, yeah?”

John grunted. “Yeah, today and tomorrow, thank god. I need a break. Why?”

“I was thinking of getting some folks together for a happy hour at the pub tonight. It’s Della’s birthday. You in?”

“Shit.” John frowned. “I should have known that. Why didn’t I know that? I should get her some flowers.”

Clive shrugged. “Buy her a drink.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get the first round.”

“Excellent. Better watch what you eat today, save up some calories.” Clive grinned slyly. “I know how you are about those potato skins.”

“Oi, fuck off. No one can resist those things. They put  _ crack _ in those things.”

Clive pursed his lips skeptically. “It’s just bacon and cheese, John.”

“It’s  _ magic.” _

“Whatever, old man. Come on, earn your muffin. Beat me up this hill.”

The last few clouds cleared as they were running, and John took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air. The run had come easily today, and he found himself reluctant to see it end. “Hey, young buck, it’s a beautiful day. Feel like running into town? I’ll buy you a real coffee.”

Clive grinned. “You’re on.” They turned to pick up the trail toward town, startling a couple of mourning doves as they took a shortcut through the high green grass. 

Fifteen minutes later, they rounded the last corner, and the bakery was just ahead. “Hey, no line. Looks like our lucky day,” John said, slowing his pace. “We should grab a table. They make a lemon tart here that will--”

Strong fingers wrapped around John's arm. He nearly stumbled, tangled up by his own momentum as he was pulled quickly backwards. Before he realized what was happening, he’d been dragged all the way back around the corner and several meters up the street they’d just run down. John’s shoulders slammed back into solid brick as Clive’s face, pale and wide-eyed, came into focus.

“What the--” John started to bluster, but Clive covered John’s mouth with his hand and shook his head frantically.

“Don’t say a word,” Clive hissed. “Not one word. Do you hear me?”

John searched Clive’s face; his brown eyes, normally fond and smiling, were almost entirely black with pupil and panic. There was a tiny quiver in the hand Clive held across John’s mouth, and John could see his pulse pounding in his throat. Whatever this was, Clive wasn’t playing around. John gave a quick nod and Clive slowly removed his hand.

“Don’t move,” Clive mouthed, holding up a cautionary index finger before he crouched and took several slow, silent steps forward, cautiously craning his neck to get a clear view of the street. After a long minute, he eased back toward John, placing his body squarely between John and the corner. “I need to get you home,” he muttered, running his hands through his hair. “Son of a bitch. I should have...How do we...What was I thinking?” 

John quickly scanned the area he could see, stretching a bit to peek around Clive’s body. Everything seemed normal for a spring weekday morning--a bit of traffic, some light chatter from other pedestrians. There were no concerning sounds coming from the street behind them, no explosions, gunshots, or screams. “Hey,” John whispered. “Mind filling me in here?” 

Clive shook his head sharply. “No time. Now listen. We can’t risk a cab, so we’re going to have to get back to your place on foot. I mean run, John, as fast as you’ve ever run in your life. Are you up for it?”

John blinked. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, of course I am, but…”

“Not  _ now,” _ Clive said tightly, holding up a hand. “Head directly to the RV. On my mark, run as fast as you can. Get up this road and onto the trail, and then just go for it. Keep your eyes open, and if anything happens to me,  _ keep going. _ Got it?”

“If anything happens to you?” John asked incredulously. “What the fuck is going on here? I’m not leaving you--”

“John, listen to me,” Clive snapped. “You are the  _ only _ thing that matters right now. On. My. Mark. Ready?”

John stared at him. Clive was as serious as John had ever seen him. 

“Please, Doc,” Clive pleaded softly. “Please. Just trust me.”

John thought of bright mornings in the Afghanistan desert, missiles firing and blood on the sand, orders flying and chaos at hand. He remembered sharing piercing looks with his fellow soldiers as they locked and loaded their guns, wordless promises that they’d fight for each other with everything they had. This felt like that. Clive looked like that. 

“On your mark, Abbott,” John said, finally. 

Clive let out a deep, relieved sigh. After one final peek around the corner, he pointed sharply back the way they came.  _ “Go,” _ he snapped, and it was an order if John had ever heard one.

\---

Clive crowded John up the stairs to the RV, pushed him through the door, and shoved him in the general direction of the lounge. John tripped and bumped his leg on the coffee table, but he didn’t even get a chance to swear before Clive had the door locked and the shades pulled down. As John watched, he made a quick sweep of the RV, nodding once with satisfaction before finally collapsing against the wall to catch his breath. Baffled and exhausted, John flopped down onto the sofa and rubbed at his bruised shin. He wanted a drink, but needed some answers.

Clive finally stood straight and waved a hand in John’s direction. “Get dressed,” he said, with that same air of command from before. “You’re going into work.”

John blinked, incredulous. “No, I’m not,” he answered. “I’m coming off seven days straight. Besides, I’m not going anywhere before…”

Clive cut him off, shaking his head impatiently. “You need to be around people right now.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly what I don’t need. What I  _ do _ need is a sitrep. What the hell is going on, Abbott?”

Clive ran his fingers through his hair, sighing with frustration. “I’m...not sure. I need to go find out, and I need to know you’re safe to do that.” He took a step closer, looking down at John with a beseeching look. “Please, John. You don’t have to actually work, just...go hang out in the ER for a couple of hours, all right?”

John crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re stubborn,” Clive said sharply. “Can’t you just...look, pretend you’re doing records. Play cards with the residents. Hell, make balloon animals for the kids, just go be where people can keep an eye on you.”

John gave him a long look. “Is my life in danger?” he asked calmly.

Clive swallowed. “Maybe,” he admitted.

“Then I’m not going to take a fight to a hospital full of sick people, for fuck’s sake.” John motioned to the window. “Look, I’ll see anyone coming at me out here, and security is just a phone call away. Besides--” He gave Clive a tight smile. “I actually can hold my own in a fight. Soldier, you know. I’ll be all right until you get back.”

“But...ugh, okay, fine. I don’t have time to waste on arguing.” Clive pointed his finger in John’s face. “But you bloody well stay here, then. I don’t need to have to go looking for you if we have to make a run for it. Got it?”

John arched an eyebrow. “Sorry, what was your rank again?”

A smile flitted across Clive’s face. “General. As in, generally speaking, I will kick your arse if you let yourself get hurt.” He pointed a finger toward John’s face. “I’m trusting you,  _ soldier. _ Don’t make me regret it.”

“Understood,” John said with a crisp nod, pointing his own finger back at Clive. “But you owe me some fucking answers.”

“As soon as I can,” Clive promised, and turned to leave, hesitating just as he reached for the door handle. He stood still for a long moment, before dropping his head in apparent surrender. ”Fuck it. There’s one more thing.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m going to get in so much trouble,” Clive mumbled, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket. “Take this,” he said, handing John a battered black flip phone. “There’s a single number saved on here. If I’m not back in, say, four hours...call it.”

John snorted as he took the phone. “This phone has to be ten years old. Do I need to crank it first?”

“I’m not kidding, John. Please. Just, stay here. Keep your eyes open. And seriously, if I’m not back in four hours, call that number and just...do what they say.”

John blinked down at the phone. “Look, Clive. I need at least something to go on here. Is this from your time in the army?”

“No, not...” Clive stared at him. “It’s not about me at all, John.”

“You don’t mean it’s about me,” John said in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? I’m an itinerant doctor living in a tin can. I’m nobody.”

Clive shook his head. “You don’t know how important you are, and you  _ should, _ you deserve to, but I don’t have time to explain everything.” Clive pointed at the door. “Lock the fucking door, and stay away from the windows. If you see anything you don’t like, a car, a person, a fucking  _ shadow, _ call security. And if I’m not back in four hours…”

John stood, his body trembling now with adrenaline rather than exhaustion. He automatically assumed a military posture as he held up the phone. His hand was steady. “I’ll call the number.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

“Okay.” Clive sagged with relief. “Okay,” he said again, more to himself this time. “I’ve got to get going.” 

“I’ll get the door behind you,” John said, moving quickly toward the door. “Just, whatever this is. Be careful, okay?”

Clive stopped, his eyes meeting John’s. He looked determined, and he looked afraid. It was never a combination John liked to see. “I will,” Clive said finally. “You, too.” He bent down to look out the lounge window. “I told him to let me get you a gun,” he muttered under his breath.

John’s brow furrowed. “Told who?” 

Clive shook his head. “Later.” He reached for the door. “I’ve got to go. Remember, lock the door. Four hours. And, John...” Clive gave him one last, long look, and John was surprised at the amount of regret he now saw in those dark eyes. “I’m sorry about this. About...everything. I hope you can forgive me.”

The door clanged behind him. John watched him run quickly to the tree line at the edge of the parking lot and slip out of sight. “What the  _ fuck,” _ John whispered. His heart was pounding. He knew Clive well enough to know when he was kidding, and this, whatever it was, was no joke.

Right, he thought. Well, he had his orders.

John took several minutes to assess the area around the RV. Moving from window to window, he carefully scanned the parking lot on one side and the small piece of forest on the other. Nothing seemed out of place. If he listened closely he could hear the birds chirping away outside, already recovered from Clive’s sudden exit. A good sign, he thought, and a valuable signal: the birds would go silent if someone came near. He looked to make sure the windshield privacy blinds were in place, and checked that the side mirrors, which reflected in as well as out, were well covered. He set out a kitchen knife on the table, and put a frying pan next to the door. His base was secure, the sector was clear, and his weapons, such as they were, were ready. Now, he thought, there was nothing to do but stand his watch. 

He put the kettle on to boil, stealing frequent glances through the shades as he waited for the water to heat. Once he had a cup in hand, he pulled a chair up by the door and raised the blinds until only a small slit of light at the bottom of the window was visible. He’d spent many long hours standing watch back in Afghanistan, and though years had passed, his mind readily slipped back into the habit. Scan and assess, he thought, scan and assess, as he watched for a threat he couldn’t even name.

\---

The time, of course, passed slowly.

At the four hour mark, John stood and stretched and considered his options. The flip phone was a warm, heavy weight in his pocket. He pulled it out and studied it, as he had countless times over the long, uneventful watch. He’d thought several times of brushing aside the deadline and just placing the call, in hopes of finally getting some goddamned answers. But he’d held out, and now that the time had come, he found himself reluctant to take action. There was a certain amount of relief in not knowing, he thought; once he pushed that button, everything would change. Clive would then be  _ missing, _ possibly in danger, and not just out screwing around. He turned the phone over and over in his hand, stretching out the last few moments in which he could be righteously pissed off without having to be frightened. Finally, with a sigh, he flicked open the cover.

One number, one name: Sigerson. John searched his memory, but he couldn’t remember ever hearing it before. Could be a member of Clive’s family, he thought, or an old friend. Whoever it was, John hoped they’d be able to shed some light on whatever the hell was going on.

He sighed and checked the clock. He was fifteen minutes late, and still no sign of Clive; there was nothing for it. John took a deep breath and pressed the number. It rang three times, and he began to pace, making it as far as the kitchen area before pausing to turn back.

And then he heard it. 

The Voice.

Clear and crisp as ever, not seeped in pain and regret, not full of snap and snark, just...precise. Businesslike. On the case.

_ Alive. _

“Abbott,” it said flatly. “Report.”

John froze, completely incapable of speech.  _ I’ve finally lost my mind, _ he thought wildly. The silence stretched out for what seemed like forever.

“Abbott,” the Voice said again, sterner now and rising. “Report.”

John couldn’t move, not even to blink, or to breathe. The numbers on the microwave swam in and out of focus. Could it be...was it possible that two people in the universe might have been born with that voice? The accent was distinctive, but maybe Clive’s father had gone to Harrow, or his brother, John didn’t know...

_ “Abbott.” _

The Voice was annoyed now, coated in ice and anger, and John found he was able to respond to that, at least. He drew in a deep breath, pulling energy from every single cell in his body for the strength to force the words out. “Not Abbott,” he croaked, his own voice literally shaking. He hadn’t heard that since his last appointment with his therapist, three years ago. 

“Not Abbott,” the Voice echoed, and John could hear it in the words, the  _ thinking, _ those intricate gears turning. Christ, all these years with this Voice in his head, and he hadn’t been doing the depth or complexity of it justice. It was  _ beautiful. _ “Oh,” the Voice finally said, an exhale of recognition, and John wondered desperately if the pain he heard in that syllable was real, or merely the projection of his own baffled anguish.

There was a long pause. John braced himself against the refrigerator and stared at the sky, praying wordlessly for things to start making sense. His entire chest cavity was throbbing with something he couldn’t name, a mix of hope, agony, and terror that somehow, over all the hell he’d gone through, he’d never felt before. He pressed the phone tightly to his ear and held his breath and  _ prayed.  _

“Oh,” the Voice said again, sharper, brighter, and John strained to hear it through the increasingly loud buzzing in his ears. “John.”

John felt the blow as surely as if he’d been struck over the head. He reeled, physically  _ reeled _ as every joint in his body turned to jelly. As his vision narrowed, the name came to his lips for the first time in years.

_ Sherlock, _ he sighed, as the world went black.

\---

“Doctor Watson...Doctor Watson...John, please. Wake up.”

He shifted a bit, vaguely wondering why his mattress felt so hard.

“Wake up, John.” A woman’s voice trickled in through the sleep fog in his brain. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a gentle tap. “I was sent to find you. You have to get up now.”

John grumbled. He wasn’t comfortable, by any means, but his head hurt, and he had no reason to think getting up would make it any better.

“Wake up, John,” the woman said again, louder now. “I’m in no state to pull you up, but you can’t stay here.” The hand on his shoulder again, a bit firmer this time.  _ “Please. _ ”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling was familiar.  _ Home, _ he thought. He turned his head to the side to look around, and was surprised to find that he was apparently lying on his kitchen floor. He could see something, a small box, on its side on the linoleum, just out of reach. Another blink, and the image came into focus. A phone. The screen was dark. 

He turned his gaze back to the ceiling. He was home, but not in bed, and there was a phone. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and took a deep, chest-stretching breath; nothing seemed to be broken. He had a sore place on the back of his head, but it didn’t hurt like he’d been struck. Just bumped himself when he landed, then. He quickly ran his tongue over his teeth--normal sleep taste, no hint of alcohol. He lifted his head a couple of inches to look around, and saw that he was wearing his running shoes. Had he been planning to go for a run? Waiting for--

_ Clive. _ His head fell back against the floor again, but he didn’t even register the pressure on his already sore head. Clive was--something, something bad, maybe, and John had been sitting, and watching, and the phone, the call, the call, the  _ Voice... _

“Oh god,” he said faintly. 

“There you are,” the woman said, sounding relieved, and he felt a hand on his face. He blinked, once, again, and above him, Della’s worried eyes came into view. “Can you sit up? Do you know where you are?”

That was the only thing he was sure of. “Kitchen,” he grunted, and slowly pushed up to sitting. It took a few seconds for his vision to stop spinning, and he closed his eyes until the dizziness passed. 

“Here, have a drink of water.” 

John felt a plastic cup being pressed into one hand. He opened his eyes again and took in Della’s pale, concerned face. “Why are you here?” He glanced quickly over at the phone, still dark, heavier on the floor than it had been in his pocket. Had it been...was it real? Had he imagined it all as he was falling? 

“Drink that.” Della nodded meaningfully at the cup. “I got a call at work. He called it a request, but it sounded more like an order, really. He said I needed to come and find you. Well, I guess I can see why.”

“An order?” He drained the cup, and then rubbing his head, fumbled his way to standing. “Was it Clive?”

She put a hand under John’s elbow and steered him to one of the kitchen chairs. “No, not Clive,” she said, as she hovered over him. “Someone I didn’t know, didn’t say who they were. They asked for me by name, though, strangest thing.”

“What did they sound like?”

“It was a man. Deep voice. English accent, but not like yours, more...snobby?” She winced apologetically. “Sorry. Asked me to come find you, said he, how did he say it, ‘had reason to be concerned.’ Said something about being your roommate...no, he used a different word. I thought it was funny. Flatmate, that was it. I figured you knew him in college or the army or something. You want some ice for your head?”

John stared up at her. Only one word of that had registered. “Flatmate,” he echoed blankly. “Right.” This wasn’t possible, he thought. This couldn’t be happening. He looked down at the floor, where the phone sat silent and dark, and then back up to Della, who looked back with a mixture of worry and curiosity. He blinked, and both were still there, in his kitchen. Slowly, he reached down and pinched his thigh once, hard. He felt the press of his fingers and the sharp nip of pain and  _ shit, _ this  _ was _ actually happening. 

Flatmate.  _ Sherlock.  _ “Oh, Christ,” John groaned, as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Hurts, does it?” Della cooed sympathetically, and then started to move around the kitchen, putting ice into a sandwich bag and wrapping it in a towel. “Anyway, I’m supposed to take you back to the hospital as soon as you can walk, find you a quiet place, and sit with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” John said, wincing she held the cold pack to his head. “You’re supposed to be working. Anyway, it’s your birthday, isn’t it? You should go, let people fuss over you. I’ll be fine here. Couple of aspirin and I’ll be good as new.” He was desperate for some time alone, just a quiet hour to think. 

She shook her head solemnly. “Your friend was very clear. He said there’d be someone along shortly, but not to let you alone until they arrived.”

_ Friend. _ The word hit like a blow to the heart. Friend. Flatmate. Colleague. Instrument of destruction. His  _ friend,  _ Sherlock Holmes, was alive.  _ Alive. _

And Clive, another  _ friend, _ had known it all along. John felt the shock of pain ripple out from his chest and through every part of him until he could feel it in his fingertips, his toes, his  _ hair.  _ He could barely remember how to breathe.

Della reached for one of his hands and placed it over the ice pack on the back of his head. “You okay, Doc?” she asked gently, tipping up his chin to look into his eyes in the weak yellow of the kitchen light. “You look…”

He blinked up at her. How did he look? Confused? Furious? Terrified? 

“Sad,” she completed. “You look sad. Like you used to.” She smiled wanly. “This isn’t all some kind of joke, then. I was kinda hoping it was. Suppose you wouldn’t have passed out over a joke, though.”

He sighed deeply. “No, not a joke.” He reached up with the hand not holding the ice and patted her arm. “But I’m fine, love, really I am.”

“Well, can you walk?” She took a half step back and held out her hand. “I do have my orders, after all,” she said, with a wink.

John nodded and dropped the ice pack on the table. She obviously wasn’t going to let it go, and  at least he’d be that much closer to getting some bloody answers. “All right, then, I’ll come. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.” He stood, walked over to the table, and fished under some papers for a pencil. True friend or not, Clive had obviously been concerned for him; it was only fair to keep him at least marginally informed. “Let me just leave a note for Clive. I was expecting him.”

Della tsked. “Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I. Clive called in. Going to be out a few days, sounds like. Family emergency. Apparently he called Cavendish thirty minutes or so before I came to find you. She was looking for volunteers to cover his shifts.”

John stilled. “Family, you say? Was he heading home?”

“You mean England?” Della shook her head. “Nope, California. Guess he’s got an uncle out there. Did you know that?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” John felt the stirrings of anger deep in his gut. He’d thought he’d finally made a friend, he thought, someone he could count on, but here he was again. Secrets. Intrigue. Lies. His “trust issues” were justified, damn it. “I’m beginning to realize I didn’t know him at all, actually,” he said with a hint of resentment as he dropped the pencil back onto the table.

Della gave him a quizzical look. “Well, you can’t know everything about a person, now, can you. Come on there, now, Doc, grab your keys.”

They made their way out of the RV, and John locked the door behind them. It was still bright outside, sunny and warmer than it had been, but John’s hands were shaking as though it was the coldest depths of winter.

\---

After a brief stop at the tea station in the lobby, Della and John settled into a corner of the strangely empty ER waiting room. The chairs were hard and the air was stale, but John barely noticed. His cup of tea grew cold in his hand as he tried to wait patiently. It wasn’t his best effort. For one thing, he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, or whom. Nothing made any sense. If he had any self-protective instinct at all, he thought, he’d stand up right now, march back to the RV, and drive away, leaving this sorry mess behind him.

He sighed and stayed where he was.

After thirty minutes or so, a tall, willowy redhead, immaculately coiffed, paused in the doorway. She was impeccably dressed in a cream silk blouse under a sleek black crepe suit, dark stockings, and polished patent leather pumps, with a Blackberry in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. She scanned the room slowly, with one barely interested eyebrow arched just so. John recognized the look, if not the face. “Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “What does he have, some sort of starter kit?”

A smirk played at her lips as she walked across the room to stop before him. “I was told to bring you this,” she said, and held out the cup.

He looked at it with a mix of curiosity and longing. “Is it drugged?”

“Nope. I mean, it  _ is _ Starbucks, so maybe, but no more so than normal.” She waggled the cup. “I put real cream in it.”

He grabbed it. “Oh, shut up and sit down.” 

“Of course, sir,” she said coolly, and turned to Della, who had risen to standing and was hovering vigilantly by John’s side. “Your aid is appreciated, madam. Doctor Watson is under my protection now, so your services will no longer be required. Please feel free to return to your accustomed duties. And if I may be so familiar, happy birthday.”

“Your protection…” Della said skeptically, and looked over to John, brows lifted in inquiry. “You know her, Doc?”

“Never seen her before in my life.” John gave her a reassuring smile and reached to squeeze her hand. “It’s fine, Della. Thanks for everything. I’ll take you out for a birthday lunch for next week, all right?” 

“Okay, Doc,” she said slowly, “but you just holler if you need me and I’ll come running.” She gave the woman one long last look through narrowed eyes before she turned and left. The other woman smiled and settled into the newly vacated chair. 

“Protective,” she observed, as she watched Della disappear down the hallway. “I like her.”

John hummed and took a sip of his coffee. “How’d you know about the cream?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I read your file, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” He took another sip. “You’re American.”

“Yes.”

“Mind telling me who sent you?”

She sighed wearily and glanced down at her Blackberry.

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” John glared. “Give me a break, will you? It’s been a sore bitch of a day, and I need some answers. Surely I’ve been cleared on some level, or you wouldn’t be admitting to reading my file.”

She put down the phone with a faint smile. “You know, you’re exactly what I expected. Very well. To start--” She gestured at her attire. “You know who I work for.”

“Of course. Nice suit.”

The smile broadened into a grin. “Thanks. It has pockets.”

“What’s your name?”

Her look turned knowing.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But make something up, will you? It’s just rude, otherwise.”

“Fair enough.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You can call me Kennedy.”

“Thank you, Kennedy,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “You’re--” He quickly looked her over. “--What, ex-CIA?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Something like that.”

“Hm. So, Mycroft has himself a team of yanks,” John mused. “Makes sense, I suppose. You all do, what. Keep him in Oreos? Send over good barbecue? Take out a rogue senator here and there?”

Kennedy shrugged, but stayed silent.

“Ah, the Mycroftian code of silence. I see you’re true to the brand,” John mused. “Well, fair enough. Maybe you can help me with matters closer to hand.”

“You can ask me questions,” she said, sounding amused, “but I might not be able to answer them.”

“Right, well, better than nothing. Let’s see. Clive was on your team, yes?”

“Ha. You don’t beat around. I’ll give you that.” She settled back into her chair, and John looked at her expectantly. “Okay, well, no. Abbott was...freelance.”

“Freelance,” John echoed. “I don’t understand.”

She scowled. “He was...outside the system,” she said, looking annoyed that such a thing was even possible. “Mister Holmes the younger hired him.”

“Mister Holmes the...right. To do what?”

“To watch you.”

Before he’d even fully processed the words, John felt a hot splash of rage, like someone had thrown a pot of scalding liquid directly at his midsection. “He hired him,” he bit out. “To watch me.”

Kennedy lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t shoot the messenger, sir.”

John barely heard her as realization dawned. “He wasn’t the first, was he. He had people…” The image of Joe holding him, trying to comfort him, flashed through his mind, and he felt acutely nauseous. “He had people everywhere.”

She looked at him for a long moment, frowning. “It wasn’t like that,” she finally said, surprisingly gentle. “He didn’t--the agents weren’t supposed to engage. They just, you know, kept an eye on you. Made sure you were okay.”

“Jesus.” John threw his head back and let out a little humorless chuckle. “I wasn’t,” he said to the ceiling. “Okay, that is. Not by a long shot.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said, in the same soft tone. “It took him some time to figure it out, but he finally realized...well. That you needed help. That’s why he ordered Abbott to escalate.”

“Escalate,” he repeated, exaggerating the word. He lowered his head to level his gaze at her. “I thought he was my friend, but I was just a fucking  _ escalation.” _

She looked away. “For what it’s worth, I only talked to Abbott once, but we exchanged emails every once in a while, and I do think he cared. He liked you. He...worried, sometimes.”

“I honestly don’t know if that helps or not.” John blew out a long breath, suddenly exhausted. 

“He wasn’t supposed to give you that phone, you know,” she said quietly. “That was completely against protocol, but he needed to know you’d be looked after, didn’t he.”

John was abruptly done with this topic. He’d have to sort out his feelings about Clive later. “What are we doing here?”

She blinked at the change of subject. “Waiting.”

“And I am, what? In custody?”

There was a long silence. “We don’t know what happened to Abbott,” she said, finally. Her tone was careful now, neutral.  “He hasn’t reported in. We have to consider the possibility that you are a target. I’m here to...”

“Babysit me,” John interrupted. 

Kennedy shook her head. “Keep you safe.” 

“And who is after me, then?”

“I’m not completely sure, but I’d assume it’s the people Mr Holmes the younger has been hunting.” She smirked. “You didn’t think he was on vacation, did you?”

“Until a couple of hours ago, I thought he was dead,” John shot back. There was a sudden prickling in his throat, and his eyes started to water. For once, it wasn’t allergies. He blinked once, twice, and looked away.

After a minute, he felt a tap on his sleeve, and he looked down to see her manicured hand holding out a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have said that. I can’t imagine.”

He nodded once, acknowledging the kindness, and took the tissue. “Yeah, well. I don’t suppose you can tell me more about what--” The name still stuck in his throat. “What’s been  _ happening  _ for three years.”

Thankfully, she understood. “I probably shouldn’t.”

He nodded. “He’s coming here, isn’t he,” he said flatly. 

She sighed. “Of course, sir. He’s on a plane right now.”

He closed his eyes involuntarily. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

There was no reply. He didn’t open his eyes. “The cursing was in my file, too, wasn’t it.”

“Yup.”

The minutes passed. Kennedy checked her Blackberry periodically, but otherwise seemed content just to sit in silence. For his part, John stared out the door, catching bits and pieces of the hustle of a normal day in the ER. He’d had the day off, he remembered distantly, and he’d had plans: running, breakfast, a kip on the sofa with an open book on his chest, potato skins for supper, drinks with friends. It would have been nice, peaceful in its way, but that kind of ordinary seemed impossible now. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. He was going to have a headache forever, he thought. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten since the night before.

Kennedy shifted in her chair to face him. “You should have some lunch.”

John’s eyes flew open. “No. No, you do not get to play with me like that. You can’t just--read me. You can’t--”  _ Deduce me, _ he didn’t say.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Doctor Watson...your stomach is grumbling. That generally means one is hungry. The solution to that particular problem is, in most cases, food.”

“Oh,” John said, glancing down at his not-silent midsection. His face flushed. “Jesus. Sorry.”

“Not at all,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “I’ll get you a sandwich.”

“And will you be tasting it for me, too?”

She stood and looked down at him. “Yes,” she answered solemnly. 

There was no good answer to that. “They do a good chicken club at the second floor coffee shop,” he offered. “Should still be open.”

“Very well,” she said, turning to leave. “Stay here, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He blinked in surprise. “You’re...just going to leave me here?”

She stopped and considered him. “Are you going to do anything stupid?”

“No, I guess not.” The realization hit, and he gave her a knowing smile. “Besides, you’re not here alone.”

She tapped her nose. “Bingo,” she said. “Be nice to the janitors. I’ll be right back.”

She slipped through the doorway, and he found himself alone for the first time since he’d placed that bloody call. The quiet seemed to close in, sealing him off from the rest of the ER, leaving him with only the buzzing in his ears and his own shallow breaths. He mumbled a curse and buried his face in his hands. He had absolutely no idea what he was feeling right now, but he was feeling a lot of it.

_ He never missed anything... _ The words of Christopher Reilly, his “self trauma with intent,” came back to him, echoing through his mind. Christopher, so hurt, so lonely, so angry. Christopher, who’d tried to carve the pain out of his body with a kitchen knife. _ How is it that he never saw what his leaving would do to me? _ Christopher had never said his partner’s name, John suddenly realized, yet another thing the two of them had had in common. John took in a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself. 

_ Sherlock _ , he thought firmly. Sherlock had answered the phone. This was the first time he’d been awake and alone since Sherlock had said his name.

“Sherlock,” John said out loud, and listened to the echo of that hard last sound bounce off the walls.

John opened his eyes cautiously. The world hadn’t ended. The building was still standing. His heart was still beating, his lungs were still drawing air, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone mad. Not very dramatic, John thought; no effect at all, really. He was surprised to find himself smiling. Going unnoticed: he would have hated that.

_ Sherlock _ would have hated that.

Christ. How long would this have gone on? What if John hadn’t suggested they go to the bakery? He still wouldn’t know. He’d have eaten a muffin and drank too much hospital coffee, spent his day off in blissful ignorance, and a piece of him, hidden and rough, would still be mourning his...something.

Once again, he felt a flash of pure fury. There’d been reservoirs of feeling he’d locked down in his struggle to survive; he’d been so consumed with heartbreak that he’d completely skipped over rage. Apparently, he was going to make up for that now. His hands involuntarily clenched with anger.

Kennedy reappeared in the doorway, a white bag in her hand. Her shrewd gaze swept his tense body, lingering briefly on his furrowed brow and white knuckles. She sighed and took her seat. “Here’s your sandwich,” she said, handing him the bag. “Don’t hurt it.”

He set the bag on the seat next to him. “Lost my appetite.”

She nodded her understanding. “You should know...he’s going to be here soon.”

John sagged back against the chair and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to see him,” he said firmly.

“Yeah,” Kennedy sighed. “Between you and me, I don’t blame you. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

John laughed, an angry little huff. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “It might help to talk to him,” she finally ventured. “He can explain things no one else can. It could help you figure out what to feel. You’re--lacking data.”

“Ha. You sound like him now.”

Another long pause. “If it makes you feel better…” she said tentatively, “you were the direct cause of him having to fly into Milwaukee. He said the name like it was a toxin.”

John tried to laugh, but the sound tangled in his throat and came out as a sob. He leaned his head back against the wall, trying to keep himself under control. “I thought he was dead,” he whispered, his throat tightening again. “He made me think he was  _ dead.” _

“I know,” she said, handing him another tissue. “And he’s an asshole for doing it. I won’t say different, even if I do work for his brother.”

“Ta,” he said, managing a chuckle this time as he wiped at his eyes. “You’re all right, Kennedy.”

“Thanks.” She bumped him with her shoulder. “Just--try, John. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” She hesitated. “And, well. It’s not my place to say, but he has been through a lot.”

John lifted his head and looked at her in disbelief. “Yeah? Well, you’ve read my goddamn  _ file _ ,” he said, his voice rising in anger. “So have I.”

She held up her hands in supplication. “I get that, I do, but...give him a chance to explain. You deserve to know the whole story. You’re more important than you realize.”

“Important,” John echoed in disbelief. “Clive said something about that, too, but you’ll note that the son of a bitch left me to rot in Racine, Wisconsin.”

“He left you in London,” she shot back. “Where you had a roof over your head and a support network.  _ You’re _ the one who ran. And even then, there have been so many resources devoted to keeping you safe, you can’t even imagine. And then, when you needed it, he sent you a friend.”

John shook his head. “You don’t know. I watched him die right in front of me. Losing him  _ destroyed _ me.”

Kennedy sat back, shaking her head. “Oh, Doctor Watson,” she said sadly. “There’s so much he needs to tell you. Please, for your own sake, talk to him.”

Kennedy’s phone buzzed. They both stared at it for a long moment. 

“It’s time,” she said at last. “Come with me.”  She stood and turned to him, reaching out her hand. “I wish I could stay,” she said with a small smile. “I bet the cursing will be magnificent.”

As if on its own volition, his hand rose and slipped into hers. The decision had been made, then. Her fingers were warm. “Where is he?” he whispered.

She tightened her hold, just a little, and tipped her head toward the door. “The chapel,” she answered. “It was the easiest place to secure. Come on, now,” she said, pulling on his hand. “I’ll take you there.”

He closed his eyes and took in one deep breath, and then another. “Right,” he finally said, more to himself than her, and pushed to his feet. She led him to the door and out into the hall. 

He didn’t remember a single step on the way, wasn’t sure he’d ever opened his eyes, but suddenly he was standing before a bland wooden door. A small plaque on the wall next to it said, simply, “Chapel.” He’d walked past this room dozens of times, but had never once stepped inside. A smaller sign on the door itself read, “May all who enter find peace within.” John stared at it, wondering if Cavendish would understand if he punched a hole through it.

Kennedy gestured to the door. “He’s waiting, John,” she said gently, with a soft, encouraging smile.

John nodded once and braced himself before tentatively reaching out his hand, as if he expected the doorknob to burn or deliver an electric shock. He was almost surprised when it didn’t.  _ Sherlock is behind this door, _ he thought suddenly, and the thought of it nearly broke him in two. He swayed, closing his eyes, clutching the knob tightly, desperately.   

Kennedy took a step closer. “You’ve got this,” she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Come on, Captain. You can do this.”

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I can do this,” he repeated, and took another breath. “I can do this,” he said, more firmly now, and with a determined nod, pulled the door open and stepped into the cool, dark room.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay of this chapter. This fic should be finished by the end of this month.
> 
> Jen and Kedgeree did their usual thorough job of betaing, and it is, as ever, much appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and for reading.


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